


White Collar: An unofficial novel - part 7

by AltanKatt



Series: White Collar Unofficial Novel [7]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Anklet, Bromance, Cuffs, Episode: s02e04 By The Book, Episode: s02e05 Unfinished Business, Episode: s02e06 In the Red, FBI, FBI Agent, Friendship, Gen, Handcuffs, Hurt Neal Caffrey, Inspired by White Collar, Neal Caffrey's Tracking Anklet, POV Neal Caffrey, POV Peter Burke, Prison, Stealing, Trust, White Collar - Freeform, White Collar Crime, musicbox, sara ellis - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27640916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltanKatt/pseuds/AltanKatt
Summary: This is the tv show White Collar as a novel. It is written from the point of view of Neal Caffrey or Peter Burke. The dialog follows the episodes, but there are also new scenes filling the gaps in the story. I wanted to capture the spirit of White Collar and the friendship between Peter and Neal. Part 7 starts with "By the book" and ends with "In the red".
Relationships: Elizabeth Burke & Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey, Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Neal Caffrey/Sara Ellis, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Series: White Collar Unofficial Novel [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1326365
Comments: 21
Kudos: 11





	1. Truman Capote

Neal had met up with Mozzie just for a walk. He was on his way to the office, and it was a good time to chat. To his astonishment, his friend had dressed up. Of sorts. Mozzie was a man who blended in, who dressed to not be noticeable. Today was this not totally the case.

"You're wearing an ascot."

The only thing added to the humble dress code of an invisible man. An orange ascot.

"You know, the Duke of Windsor considered ascots the elegant morning wear," Mozzie replied as if Neal had question it. If he questioned any of it, it was the combination of an orange ascot with the rest of his friend's mundane clothing and that shoulder-bag, placed front to keep it under his watchful eyes all the time.

"Great, if this were 1874..." Ascots were not the latest fashion last time he looked. "Or you were about to open that Shackleton Brandy you intercepted."

"I'm not allowed to look debonair?"

He had chosen that ascot with care. He wanted to look sophisticated. But why? He had known Mozzie for many years but still, he knew little about what he did the time they did not spend together. Even if it did not seem so many days, they did not share many of the day's hours. He respected that Mozzie did not want to tell him where he lived. Sometimes he wondered if he even had a home in regular meaning.

"You on your way to undercut that antiques dealer? Making your bookie pay for tea at the Carlyle?"

"You know, this, what you're doing," Mozzie said, "projecting your boredom with your humdrum, nine-to-five existence onto my day, where I am free to color outside the lines as I choose."

Neal smiled. One thing Mozzie would never understand was that his con friend enjoyed working for the FBI with regular hours. It was a blessing to not have to run all the time. He was done running.

"Don't let me stop you, Picasso."

"If you'll excuse me," Moz said with the tone of the sophisticated man he had dressed up as, "I have somewhere important to be."

It had been one of those productive mornings Peter enjoyed. The conference room was filled with files and agents working.

"Good work, everyone," he praised as it was closing in on lunchtime. "We're closing in. Whoever cracks this identity-theft ring on the Upper East Side wins this..." Peter brought out one of his favorite pens. "My Quantico pen. Don't make them like this anymore." Now they were just ordinary cheap pens with a logo. This pen was the real, good stuff.

"The victims all used their credit cards at a silent auction last month," Diana said. "Check the list of people who worked the event."

"Organic produce, dry cleaning, gyms, all set up on monthly accounts," Jones said followed another track. "Maybe someone got in this way."

"Well, it's written all over their faces," Neal added, standing with a file, leaning against the wall. They stared at him. "What? They share a dermatologist." Peter blinked. How had they missed that? "Someone from the office is selling patient information. I want that pen."

"Blake, run indices on all these," Peter said, "starting with Dr. Botox and his office staff. When I get back from lunch with Elizabeth, let's see who gets the pen." His guts told him that Neal was closer than Jones and Diana.

The kid obviously felt he had secured the pen because he left for lunch and walked to the elevator.

The motivation from the others dropped.

"Alright, let's go for lunch," Peter sighed.

They walked to the elevators. They had four of them. But they were not alone in the building. They had twenty-six floors of hungry agents. One of the elevators seemed to get stuck on every floor on the way down.

"At this rate, I'm gonna have to kiss my wife, put her in a cab, and grab a hot dog on my way back here."

A door pinged behind them.

"Finally!" Diana said.

Out from the elevator backed a man with a cart and inside was a whole water-cooler equipment going up.

"Obviously the universe is trying to rob me of my lunch hour," he said as he watched the door closing.

Peter considered the stairs, but it was twenty-one floors. It had to be faster with the elevators or something was utterly wrong.

A door pinged.

"Took long enough."

They moved towards the opening doors and stopped baffled as Neal Caffrey stepped out from the elevator. The kid stared back at their surprised faces.

"You guys do know we have stairs, right?"

Then he moved into the office and the others filled the elevator. Peter lingered and almost missed his chance but got inside in time. Had that elevator ever reached the bottom floor? And he left for lunch and returning with a file under his arm?

"You noticed it too?" Diana asked beside him.

Neal compared the photos in the files.

"They share a dermatologist. Someone from the office is selling patient information," he concluded, dropping the files back on the conference table. He leaned forward. "I want that pen."

Peter was not about to hand the pen over. Not yet. Good. It was more fun if he had to fight for it.

"Blake," Peter said to their newest recruit, "run indices on all these, starting with Dr. Botox and his office staff. When I get back from lunch with Elizabeth, let's see who gets the pen."

Neal left, leaving Blake to find what he already knew. His phone buzzed. He glanced at it as he stepped into the elevator. An unknown number had texted him "20th floor". He frowned. Then he pressed the button of the floor below.

The door closed, the elevator got moving. A second of fear washed over him before the car stopped, pinged, and the door opened. In rushed Mozzie in sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat, and a coat so long that he almost swept the floor with it. The man pushed a bunch of the buttons in random.

"Moz," he whispered, "what are you—"

"No names!"

"What are you doing in a federal building dressed like Truman Capote?" Neal asked as the doors closed. He noted that Mozzie placed himself in the corner beside the door, under the camera, as out of sight as possible. "You want to explain why you're here?"

"I have a friend in need."

"Girl from the diner?" he asked as the elevator pinged and opened the doors.

"You know about Gina?" Mozzie asked as he threw himself across the door, preventing anyone from entering. "No, no. No, no. Sorry."

"Yes, I know about the girl from the diner," Neal said, though 'know' was a bit of overstatement since it was June who told him about Mozzie's waitress friend. "What I don't know is why you wore an ascot to meet with her."

"Oh. Gina likes orange." Mozzie grinned for a second before turning serious again. "And she's in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"The serious kind. These two guys came into the diner. Gina got really nervous, and she told me to read a book."

"Wow. That's definitely cause for alarm."

"Neal, it was 'Snap of the twig,' and she knows I already read it!"

"That's your proof?"

"You sound like the Suit," Mozzie complained. "Right before she walked out the door of the diner, she asked me if I knew anyone in the FBI."

Once again the doors opened. Mozzie once again blocked the door.

"Oh, uh, my friend is very claustrophobic. He could get violent." Neal backed away. He did work in this building. This was not funny. "It's okay. It's okay," Mozzie soothed him.

"Don't get near me. Don't get near me." Sometimes his friend was just too much.

"Okay, look, let's give it 24 hours," Neal tried. "If she—"

"We might not have 24 hours!" Mozzie yelled. "Do you know what the plot of 'Snap of the twig' is? It's about a girl who gets in too deep and ends up being kidnapped. She said she really got 'caught up in it.'"

Had his friend met someone as happy as expressing herself in codes as Mozzie, or did his overly sensitive friend over-read things?

Once again the doors opened

"Do you guys smell that?" Mozzie asked.

"Is that burning insulation?" Neal wondered.

"Oh, sometimes these things can just..." The agents backed away and the door closed. "Gina was trying to send me a message. It was a cry for help."

"This isn't the kind of case that Peter normally handles, if it's even a case."

"They owe me, Neal. I have never even asked for one favor before."

Mozzie had a point.

"Okay. I'll look into it. Can you give me Gina's last name?"

His friend had dug up a folder from his bag.

"Oh, and then some."

Neal opened the file. Way too much information about a favorite waitress in a diner.

"This is a little creepy."

"Oh, that's nothin'." The door opened and he was gone.

Neal pressed the button for the 21th floor. Lunch had just been canceled. It was easier to get started when Peter was not around. To his surprise, Peter, Diana, and Jones were waiting when the doors opened. He stared, wondering. Then he realized that they were just waiting for an elevator during the lunch hour.

"You guys do know we have stairs, right?"


	2. Exigent circumstances

Neal approached the only one who would be naive enough to do what their pet con-man asked for. Blake sat two desks away and had not yet left for lunch.

"How's your first week going?"

"Better than Harvard and Quantico combined," the young man smiled. "Psyched to be on Agent Burke's team. The guy's a legend."

"He is," Neal agreed and knew that Peter would not throw the young man out for what he would ask of him. "By the way, I got a name to add to that list he gave you." He tucked a small post-it note at the frame of the screen. "Gina Destefano."

"I'll run it right after lunch." Blake dived down in his bag, planning to eat at the office.

"Any way you can run it now? Turns out to be the one, you get that pen."

"I get the pen?"

"Oh, yeah. Come on." Neal could sacrifice that trophy to help Mozzie.

Blake put his thermos on the table and got started and did a search. FBI had this search program that could put together a file with basic information that did not need a court order in about thirty seconds. Jones had told him that, among other things, there was a service asking every listed bank for info concerning a name or a social security number, and since it was sent directly to their computers, the answers came right back. The same thing with phone records presumed the phone was registered.

"Here's her phone records."

"Interesting..." Neal mumbled as he read over the young agent's shoulder. "Gina makes a couple calls from the cell-phone at the same time every day, texts, too. Not today. It all stops at 9:15." Probably about the time Mozzie was there for breakfast. He felt a chill. Mozzie could be right. Knowing the guy for years had made sure not to take his hunches too serious. Neal reminded himself that Mozzie had guessed Peter's trap also.

"Bank and credit cards," Blake continued.

"No ATM withdrawals. Cards are quiet."

"Does this woman work for the dermatologist?" Blake asked.

"I like the way you think," Neal answered and left. It was lunch-hour. He would not be missed for a while. On the way down, he called Mozzie, who had waited just a block from there.

"Let's go to Gina's place," Neal suggested. It was within his radius and not far from there.

"Where does she live?" Mozzie asked. "No, wait, don't tell me. I just tag along." On the way there, he told what he had found for Mozzie.

"Gina's been taken," Moz concluded. "I just know it."

"Maybe she's sick in bed."

"No one goes off the grid like this."

"How'd you make a file on her and not get her address?"

"You know, I don't just go around looking up people. I'm not some kind of a stalker," his friend said and stopped when he stopped. "She's unlisted. There is a line, Neal."

"Well, the FBI crossed it for you." He nodded towards the basement apartment at the house where he stopped. Mozzie watched the wall.

"So, now what do we do?"

"You could knock," Neal suggested.

"I can't knock! She's unlisted. How do I explain how I found her?"

Mozzie had a point.

"Here, I'll do it. I'll tell her, I'm looking for the last tenant." He walked towards the door, but Mozzie stopped him.

"Oh, no, don't!"

Neal did not understand Mozzie sometimes. Most times, really, but this was just strange on a new level.

"She doesn't know who I am."

"You ever wonder why you've never been introduced? She meets you, and suddenly I become the quirky friend!"

Alright, Mozzie did not put his charisma in high esteem. It did not help the situation. He jammed his hands in his pockets.

"What do you suggest, Moz?"

Odd as he may be, he was not stupid. His friend realized too that one of them had to knock on the door. Neal watched him jog towards the door.

"There you go." Mozzie knocked and then… "What are you..." Mozzie hurried back and pressed himself up against the wall, motioning Neal to join him. Neal sighed and did. "Oh, my God. This is really mature."

Nothing happened by the door. Mozzie brought out a stethoscope from his bag and listened by the door.

"Anything?"

"This does not bode well." He put the stethoscope back and picked another device. "Peephole reverser." He used it to watch inside through the peephole. "The place is trashed. Oh, God. We got to get in there."

"All right, you better start thinking of ways to convince Peter this falls under exigent circumstances."

Neal brought out his lock pick set. This was no exigent circumstances in any way. What he was about to do was a break-in, no matter the angle. This was going in a direction that would most likely be troublesome.

"Bite, chew three times, swallow, think," Elizabeth told him across the table. "Honey, you're either having a gastronomic epiphany, or it's a case."

Half-way there.

"It's Neal," Peter said as he chewed his lunch sandwich. "There was this thing with the elevator."

"Thing?"

"When he stepped off, he was shifty."

"Uh-oh. I know how you are with shifty," El replied, sipping from her glass.

"No, you..." Peter began but changed his mind. "You know what? You're right. You're right. Enough about Neal. This is our last lunch together for a week."

"You gonna survive without me?"

Peter stared at her.

"Did you forget I did a lot of the cooking when we first met?"

"Yeah," El nodded. "I have all the take-out menus in the top drawer."

"That's what I love about you." God, he loved this woman. The phone in his pocket rang. "Oh, sorry, honey."

"That's okay."

"Agent Blake," he said into the phone, "don't you eat lunch?" Young and ambitious, but taking a break to eat was not a bad thing.

"Yes, sir, but I thought you'd want to know Caffrey was right about the dermatologist. But there's no connection with that other name he had me run."

So Neal had used the innocent, naive Blake. For what? He had to have a tough conversation with Blake later. 

"Oh, right... the name Neal had you run. What was it again?"

"Gina Destefano."

"Gina Destefano," Peter repeated and saw El pausing and raising her hand. "Wait. Hold on, Blake."

"You know, when Mozzie was over sweeping the house, he mentioned some waitress he was bonding with over mystery novels... I think that's her."

"Yeah. Blake, keep monitoring. I'll be back soon." He hung up and looked at El. "Mozzie has a crush?" Somehow he could not see the funny little man dating. Unfair, he knew it.

She smiled.

"It happens."

"Coffee table askew. Clothes put back upside down," Mozzie noted as they walked through the little apartment. "Work of an amateur."

"Well, you're right," Neal agreed. "Someone was looking for something."

"Hey, look at this." Moz picked up a book from the floor and pulled something from it, sticking out. "I made this for Gina."

Neal grinned all over his face as he showed it to Neal. It was a paper napkin with two lines written on it. The first said 'AYE CUT EURO' in black pen, and the second a translation of the row in blue pen into 'you are cute'.

"Wordplay," Neal said and stared at his friend, not fully grasping that there was more than just friendship going on. "Hope you used protection."

Mozzie did not hear. Or get what he was talking about.

"She likes codes. And she kept it." Like the question he always wanted to ask had been answered.

"To use when she files the restraining order?" Neal said to take him down to earth. Moz sent him a glare. He kept looking around the room.

"Uh, Moz…" He nodded toward the mantlepiece with a row of photos. Moz swung around and stared at the picture of Gina being hugged by a man.

"Boyfriend?" he asked, perplexed. "He's follicly and vertically challenged like me, only… better."

Neal saw the world crumble around his friend's feet.

"Hey, hey, he's a… a version of you." It was the best he could come up with. Mozzie used the napkin to flip the photos down so he did not have to see them. It gave Neal an idea.

"Prints. If we find any, I can run them back at the office. Gloves?"

"Always." He dug a pair out from his shoulder bag.

"Thanks." What to use for dust? He approached the printer.

"Neal, I'll bet you a first-edition Faulkner that those two goons from the diner have a rap sheet from here to New Jersey." Neal pulled the toner cassette out and removed the strip that would leave just the right amount of black power on the paper. "Oh. Here. Brush." Yet another item from the magic bag. "Drawers?"

"Yep."

He made a quick sweep over the front and its nobs.

"Oh, come on. No prints. Looks like this place has been wiped." Sitting on his heels, he saw the polished surface from another light. He rose and poured some toner on it and swept with the brush. Amazed, Neal saw four capital letters emerge where the dust stuck instead of leaving: 'SAL'S.'

"Someone left a message in fingerprints."

"Gina." Moz read. "That's from 'The harpist's revenge.' Call in the cavalry."

"Wait. Wait a second, Moz. Sal's. That's a cigar bar down by your chess club."

"Well, so, what are we waiting for?" He was already walking to the door. "This is a kidnapping! Time is of the essence. Uh, Patty Hearst?"

Neal sighed and dumped the toner in the printer on his way out. He was already late back from lunch.

"Yeah."


	3. Visit in the humidor

Sal's Cigar bar was closed, but Neal felt he was already too involved to stop now. If he was going back to prison for this, at least he wanted to know he had done his best to save Gina. He pulled out his lock-picks and

"I'll keep watch," Moz said and moved towards a less visual place.

"All right."

"Hurry up!"

"I'm hurrying, Moz."

The lock clicked and Neal opened the door and stepped inside. He made sure the door closed without a sound behind him. With careful steps, he walked up the stairs up to the lounge. He heard a man talk.

"Enough! I don't care about a girl. I care about my money. Our driver drops off a package, walks out with $100,000 cash. My cash."

Neal was glad for the soft carpets. He could move without a sound towards the voice. The layout was made as smaller areas, leaving him walls to hide behind.

"In Colombia, we'd all go for a walk in the jungle right about now."

"So that's what we do," a younger man's voice said.

There was a pause.

"Really, Vince?" the first voice asked. "We go for a walk in the jungle to get my money back?"

"Yeah," the younger voice insisted. "But it's a park."

Neal's phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the message. It was from Diana: 'Contact Burke ASAP'.

"Someone's in here," the first voice noted.

He heard chairs moving.

The phone buzzed again. Mozzie this time. 'GUNS!' Trouble. He hurried to the humidor he had seen on his way in. Naturally, a cigar bar had a big humidor with a glass door so everyone could see the cigars available. He slipped inside and worked to lock the door. Locking was not the same as unlocking with lock picks.

Just when he was done and pulled his lock pick out he looked right into an angry face that he guessed belonged to the voice that had been talking the most moments ago.

"Open it," the angry man told his men. "Let's do this face-to-face." They would use guns. Time to find a way out. Unfortunately, the very function of a humidor was to be pretty airtight to be able to control the humidity. On the other hand, it was a room, not a safe. And it had ventilation up in the ceiling.

"He's going for the roof," he heard someone say.

"Everything all right in here?" Neal paused on his way upwards. Was that Peter's voice?

"We're closed for business."

"Special Agent Burke, FBI. Got a report..." the voice lingered, "someone broke in here." Neal climbed down and saw Peter and Diana. Peter's eyes wandered around among the assembled. "Thought I'd do my duty and stop a crime in progress." Finally, Peter saw him. "But I see... you men are already on that."

While Peter looked relieved, almost smiling, the look he got from Diana sharp enough to cut through paper.

To get access to their own cameras in their own elevators were not an issue. Diana had arranged it before Peter got back to the office. He took her and Jones to the conference room where Diana started the tape.

"Here is Neal coming in," she said and Peter noted that the young convict read something on his phone. Then someone with a wide-brimmed hat walked into frame. "This little guy gets on at nineteen but works the camera angles to avoid detection." Diana grinned and paused the tape.

"And of course we know this little guy," Jones said behind him.

"Yes, we do," Peter agreed. While the others were amused, he was not. "I'm surprised he got this close to the office." Something was not right. "What do we know about Gina Destefano?"

"Thirty-four years old, U.S. citizen," Diana quoted from the folder.

"Is she still a waitress?"

"At Margo's diner."

An agent handed a folder over to Jones and left.

"Good girl. No record," Diana continued. "Today's pattern of cell use was unusually silent until she made a call about a half-hour ago."

"We traced that number back to Tommy Barnes," Jones said handing Diana a sheet of paper.

"Multiple incoming and outgoing calls. Probably a boyfriend."

"Tommy's not so squeaky-clean," Peter noted from the summary Jones gave him. "Priors for B&E, selling stolen merch…"

"Works as a limo driver," Diana said.

From Neal to Mozzie to Gina to Tommy, Peter thought. What was going on? Mozzie sought Neal out within the FBI building. There could be no other reason than that he was in a hurry or he would have waited until Neal got home.

"Could be an errand boy for one of those numbers rings we've been keeping an eye on, on the east side," Peter speculated.

"Peter, look at this." Jones handed him a file. Peter read and felt a chill down his spine.

"Where are Neal and Mozzie?" he asked. Jones was already on the move.

"What's the problem?" Diana wanted to know.

"Pull Caffrey's tracking detail!" Peter called after Jones.

"Already on it."

Why had he not checked where the kid was right away? He knew why. Because he wanted to solve the puzzle. Checking the tracking data was like peeking at the solution prematurely. He had no idea he would be in such a hurry.

"Peter, what's going on?"

"Look who Tommy's linked to." He pushed the open file across the table.

"Cristofer Navarro."

Damn Mozzie if he had pulled Neal into that man's business. He pulled out his phone but the app was way too slow.

"I need someone to find out where Caffrey is right now!"

"You don't want to hear this, Peter," Jones said from his desk. He was by the young agent's side in three long steps.

"What?"

"Sal's Cigar bar…"

"Navarro's place. Damn it, Neal! Diana!" He marched towards the door knowing she would catch up before the elevator arrived.

Peter called the con-man only to reach voice mail.

"This is Neal. Big Brother's watching so leave a message at your own risk." Peter rolled his eyes. He could not stop cursing all the way down to the garage.

They got into the car and Peter was out of the garage quicker than ever.

Peter tried Neal's phone, again. Voice mail, again.

"Neal and Mozzie better not be involved in Navarro's business. He has a low tolerance for outsiders." He put the portable emergency light by the windshield allowing him to go faster. "Send him a text," he told Diana. "Is it right or left?"

"Left."

At last they arrived outside Sal's. Peter checked his gun and badge and walked straight inside.

"Everything all right in here?" he called at once, announcing his presence.

"We're closed for business." Cristofer Navarro himself.

"Special Agent Burke, FBI." He glanced around among the goons. Where was Neal? "Got a report... someone broke in here. Thought I'd do my duty and stop a crime in progress." Then he saw Neal behind a glass door leading to a humidor. Like a mouse in a trap, surrounded by cats ready to strike. But alive and unharmed. "But I see, you men are already on that."

He gestured for Neal to come out. He had rarely seen the kid more eager to comply. No funny comments, no dazzling charm. Peter figured Neal was terrified, but not for him but the gangster ready to kill him.

"If this man entered your place of business illegally, you have every right to press charges," Peter told Navarro. Small risk, but he wanted to be correct leaving nothing this gangster could hold against him. And, if he did press charges, his pet convict had to face the consequents of his illegal actions.

"I care deeply about the trees," Navarro answered. "I don't want to waste paper on this guy. And don't worry, Officer... we all have permits for these guns." There were more people around who wanted to be correct and leave nothing to luck.

"I'll be back another time to check those permits," Peter returned since the issue had been brought up. "I can understand why the proprietor of a cigar lounge is so heavily armed. You never know who you're gonna find in your humidor."


	4. Nuts

Diana took him by the arm and guided him out, followed by Peter. When they were walking down the stairs to the front door, she let go. They were out of sight. Peter passed them, eager to get out.

Out on the sidewalk, it felt like another world, like he just left a nightmare behind. He saw Peter look around. Then facedhim.

"Where's the little guy?" Peter wanted to know. Neal sighed. Of course, he had figured out as much.

"Moz!" Neal called out and noted that Diana had pulled on a hideous hat. "Come on out."

Mozzie showed himself and then approached.

"Suit, I must say your timing is impeccable."

Peter was not interested in flattery.

"You two can fill me in from the beginning back at the Bureau." Then he marched off to the car with Diana on his tail.

His friend in crime remained where he was.

"He wants me to go to the Bureau?"

"Yeah, Moz," Neal nodded. "If you want the FBI's help, you got to go to the Bureau." And he should have told Peter about this first thing. Moz looked in the opposite direction, weighing his options. "Just do it for Gina."

"You know what they do to guys like me at the Bureau?" Mozzie protested.

"I do, Moz," he snapped back and pulling the left leg of his pants a bit. He was their prisoner! "I do."

Neal walked to the car and got inside in the back seat, behind Diana.

"I'm sorry, Peter."

They all three waited for Mozzie, looking at his lost appearance on the sidewalk.

"You should've told me about it."

"Would you've acted on it?"

"Will you ever let me find out before you make the decision for me?" Peter returned.

Neal sighed. He knew why he had not asked Peter to look into it. Peter needed so much proof sometimes that it was unbearable. Especially since that story with the Architect and his tip about the time for the heist. Not that he could blame Peter for it. He represented something bigger than just Peter Burke.

"I don't know," Neal admitted.

He scooted over to sit behind Peter to let Moz in. His friend opened the door, scanned the inside, and then sat down. He closed the door but opened it again, just to close it.

"Done?" Peter asked. "Seatbelt."

"No way, Suit."

"What?" Diana burst. "No way I'm sitting in front of you." She threw the door open, got out, and opened Mozzie's door. "If you don't put your seatbelt on, you sit front."

Neal smiled at Mozzie's bafflement and Peter's sigh.

"Put your seatbelt on, Moz," he said. Mozzie managed to take his eyes from the furious Diana and put his seatbelt on.

"Thank you," Diana said, cooling off. "And you don't want to hear what happens if you remove it before we are at the Bureau's garage. Got that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Diana returned to her place beside Peter, and Peter got the car running before anything else happened.

Neal kept an eye on Mozzie throughout the whole quiet ride. He had been afraid the first time he was arrested, but it was different for Mozzie. He was not under arrest, and he was not scared of the unknown, but what he thought he knew.

When they left the elevator on the 21st floor, Neal found Mozzie lingering, not passing the doors' line.

"One foot in front of the other. Come on, Moz." With small steps, his friend managed to move to the floor, leaving the elevator free for others. Neal pushed the double doors open and walked into the office. It was in the middle of the day, and it was buzzing with people. Peter was already in his office.

Then he saw Mozzie. He had followed him inside but come to a complete stop right inside the doors. And there he stood, sweating and eyes as big as his glasses.

"Moz?" There was no reaction. "You need some coffee? Hello?" He snapped his fingers and got contact. "Rainman. Come on. Let's go."

"You're okay," Moz mumbled and followed him up to Peter's office.

"Sit down," Peter said, apparently not in any mood for pleasantries. Blake appeared with three FBI mugs with coffee and placed one on Peter's side of the desk. The next he put in front of Neal.

"Thanks." He hoped Blake was not into too much trouble. The third Blake gave to Mozzie.

"All right," Peter nodded, and the young agent left.

As soon as the door closed, Mozzie switched his mug with Peter's.

"Moz…" Neal could little but sigh. So did Peter.

Moz considered.

"That's what you'd expect me to do." So he switched the mugs back.

"All right, this is not a game," Peter hissed, ending the war about the mugs.

Peter watched Neal walk into the room with Mozzie. At least the short guy did not appear as a zombie anymore. He had no urge to guard more than one felon at the time. Except that Mozzie probably never got caught. What did it prove? That the odd man was no criminal? Or that the FBI was incompetent? Or that he always succeeded to put someone else in front, taking the fall?

He did not trust Mozzie and was not sure if he liked the man or not, but he was fond of Neal, and if he could, he would ask the short guy to take a hike and leave his pet convict alone. If Mozzie pulled Neal something that could not keep him out of prison, Peter would make sure that Mozzie ended up there as well.

He watched Blake serve them coffee. He needed to relax and not be angry, or he would never sort this mess out.

"All right." He nodded, and Blake left.

Then the short guy switched places on their mugs. Mozzie watched him with triumph. Peter fought with his patience. 

"That's what you'd expect me to do," the guy realized and switched the mugs back.

"All right, this is not a game," Peter hissed and moved from his place by the window and sat down by his desk, glaring at the two men on the other side. "That guy that you walked in on… Cristofer Navarro, Colombian. Washed his hands in drugs, moved on to weapons and racketeering. Knows his way around a machete and a handgun. He's been on our radar for a long time. How'd he get on yours?"

Neal and the short guy exchanged looks, and the kid seemed to tell the guy to tell.

"An acquaintance of mine left margo's diner this morning," Mozzie said, "and has not been seen since."

"He was worried about her," the kid continued, "so we stopped by her apartment."

"Where we found a clue."

"When we dusted for prints," Neal said.

"You dusted for prints?" Peter asked. That likely meant they had been inside. He was not going to bring that up unless he had to. 

"That's what led us to Sal's," the kid nodded.

"Where, on half a hunch, you walked in on Navarro," Peter said. "If you'd come to me, we could have done this right. Now Navarro's spooked. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Gina?"

"Intellectual," Mozzie replied at once, and after some thought, added: "Literal." With a smile as he was floating, he finally said: "Ongoing."

"Is he stalking her?" Peter asked Neal without thinking that he was blunt.

"I'd have to look up the legal definition," the kid replied.

"I hate to break it to you guys, but your girl, Gina, has a boyfriend. Tommy Barnes."

He dropped the file in front of Mozzie, showing the photo.

"A version of me."

"If you were a low-end criminal and drove limos as a part-time job." Peter sipped his coffee.

"Yeah, if."

"Wait a minute," his pet convict said. "I overheard Navarro say that a driver stole a hundred thousand dollars from him. Tommy rips him off. He goes after the girlfriend."

After a quick knock on the door, Diana walked inside.

"Got another ping on Gina."

Peter looked at the paper she gave him.

"Well, so much for being off the grid," he huffed. "Twenty minutes ago, she used her credit card to buy nuts from a shop in Tompkins square park." He figured at least Neal would understand that there was no case. The kid did not.

"One of Navarro's guys said something about a park," he said, rising from his chair. Peter knew enough about the kid to know when he was worried.

"This is a clue," Mozzie said, flying out of his chair. "Gina is allergic to nuts. She told me she was hospitalized for it when…" He halted and folded his arms with a grin. "Check her file."

Diana did.

"In '07. Anaphylactic shock."

Peter was not sure what he was hearing. Was the guy who saw conspiracies and threats in every corner, right?

"A nut allergy?"

Diana nodded. If Navarro was after the girl… He saw Neal smiling.

"It could work," the kid said, reading his mind.

"I'll take Navarro down any way I can."

"The cashier remembers her," Peter said, returning from the seller of the nuts. "She was here an hour ago. She sat right there on that bench." Neal looked at the bench Peter was pointing at.

"Was she with anyone?" he asked.

"She didn't notice. She said she looked scared."

"No traffic or security cams," Moz pointed out. "The only place in the city Big Brother isn't watching."

They stood by the bench. There was no clue who had been sitting there an hour before, more than an opened bag of nuts. Neal watched Peter, who seemed to see something he did not. Neal could not figure out what Peter saw. There were a lot of people in the park, sure, but they had not likely been there an hour ago.

"Jones," his handler said into the phone. "I need credit-card receipts from every shop in this area for all purchases made in the last two hours."

Neal understood and once again felt that odd sensation of being proud of his handler.

"You don't care how many 'I heart New York' keychains sold. You want to know who bought them."

"We get names," Peter agreed, picking up the bag of nuts from the bench with his hank, "find out where they're staying…"

"And welcome them to our fine city by confiscating their camcorders," Neal added a bit of dust on the halo.

"We'll give them back."


	5. Search for Gina

It was a fascinating amount of footage the FBI managed to collect in a short time. Now they were in the conference room watching it on several laptops monitored by a few more agents. And if watching his parent's home videos had been dull, this was ten times worse. Peter stared at a guy slowly leaning forward with the tip of his tongue out to lick at a lion on one of the statues in the park.

"Ugh. Do they know what birds do on that statue?"

"That's like licking the Eiffel Tower." The kid sounded as disgusted as he.

Mozzie moved from screen to screen, watching just a few seconds on each before he moved on to the next. Nervous fellow, that on.

"Are you even looking for Gina?" he blurted.

"Yes, we're looking for Gina," Peter said. "We've been looking for Gina in eight different languages, and we'll keep looking for Gina."

Blake came in with the coffee and sandwiches they had ordered.

"Thank you."

"Uh, there's provolone on my smoked-turkey ciabatta," Mozzie complained. "Did you tell them I wanted provolone?"

Blake got pale.

"What? No. I—"

Neal held up a hand and stopped Blake's excuses.

"Do you want half of mine?" the kid offered.

"Can't you just take it off?" Peter sighed and opened the package around his own sandwich.

Mozzie held his as if it was a bomb that could explode any second.

"Do you have any idea what happens if I ingest even the slightest essence of dairy?"

Peter just about to take a bite, lost his appetite.

"Please, tell me. Don't spare me any details." Did the guy had no respect for other people's work? "What right do I have enjoying my delicious deviled-ham sandwich after spending my day looking for your girlfriend?"

"Look, Peter, you got on board," Neal pointed out. Could the kid not just take his side in this?

"Well, yeah, I was dragged on board. You dragged me on board."

"I dragged you?"

"There she is!" Mozzie yelled, pointing at one of the screens.

Peter and Neal joined him.

"All right, play it again," Peter asked the agent by the laptop. They saw a mother and her two kids. "Slow it down. Zoom in there... right

there on the park bench."

The picture got blurrier, but it was the woman they were looking for sitting on the bench, alone.

"Her eyes," the kid said. "She looks to the right. Moves her hand a little, too."

"We've been looking at this park from all angles," Peter said. "If we combine all the footage, we can put together coverage of this entire area, get a look at who she's communicating with."

"Tapes three, seven, twelve, and fifteen have everything we need," Mozzie said at once. "Plus this one, of course."

Peter stared at him. And then at Neal, to get a clue what this guy was doing."

"He has perfect recall." As if it was completely natural. It probably was for guys like Mozzie. You could not function like a normal human being with a brain like that.

"What planet are you from?" Peter asked.

"Oh, Uranus, naturally. And not because of its name, which some people tend to use in low-level vulgar jokes, but because its axis of rotation is tilted, nearly into the plane of its solar orbit. Which makes it completely unique."

And awkward, Peter thought.

"Alright, you heard the guy. Tapes three, seven, twelve…"

"And fifteen," the man from a distant planet added.

An hour after Moz's listing of the tapes and his friend's assistance in finding the right parts, his handler had eaten his awful sandwich, and they could look at the different footage side by side on the big screen.

"She's waiting for something," Peter said.

"Look," Moz said and pointed. "Vince and Mike, from the diner."

"They're dropping back, don't want to be seen," Neal pointed out.

"That's what the call was," Peter agreed as they watched Tommy approach in another frame, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. "She told Tommy to meet her. They used her to draw him out."

"Classic move."

"She warns him," Neal noted. That's what the movement of the hand was about. "She can't let him walk into it."

Tommy paused, turned, and left.

"He's leaving her there?" Moz called out in disbelief. "Class act, this Tommy."

"There!" Peter said and pointed to the screen. "Rewind it and blow it up."

Neal took a step forward to see better. The image of Tommy was enhanced, backed, and played again. Tommy took something from his pocket and dropped it in the wastebasket he passed. 

"What was that?" he asked. It was a discreet move, his hand covering most of it.

"Let's find out." Peter was already on his way out. "Jones! Send a bunch of guys to Tompkins square park. Make them search the wastebaskets. We'll be there in twenty."

Neal jumped in beside Peter in the car.

"Get in, Moz."

"You know, it's faster to walk."

Neal glanced at Peter, who just sighed.

"Is it okay if I walk with Mozzie there?" he asked his handler. 

"Just don't take all day."

Neal stepped out, and Peter drove away.

"What was that for?" he asked Moz as he walked towards the door to take them out.

"I don't want to get too comfortable around the Suit. No offense, Neal, but it is hard for me to see you here, behaving so natural."

"So, you prefer to more or less jog to the park to get there in time?"

"It is more healthy in more than one aspect."

Neal had little to argue with there. Besides, the car was gone, and they had little choice. He did not want to take a cap and risk trigging the alarm. In the park, they hurried to the wastebasket Tommy had been to. Peter was already there, with a bunch of agents in windbreaker FBI jackets.

"Tommy dumped his phone," Peter said, and Neal sat down on his heels beside him.

"He doesn't want to be tracked. Can I see it?" The agent holding it, showed it to him. "There's an unchecked message," he saw at once. "Must have come in after he ditched it."

"Put it on speaker," Peter asked, and a gloved hand pressed the button.

"Five pm tomorrow," they heard Navarro's voice say. "East corner of Houston and Norfolk. Just you and the money, or you'll never see the girl again."

"Navarro has no idea Tommy didn't get this," Neal realized.

"And we have no idea where Tommy is," Peter pointed out. "If he doesn't show up tomorrow..."

Moz got the picture.

"Then, Gina's dead." 

The conference room was full of people. Though the FBI was not the cause of this mess, Peter was determined to solve it. If he could catch Navarro as well, it would be a bonus.

"Navarro is going to a lot of trouble over a hundred grand," Peter said. He liked to stroll around in the room, but Mozzie did it for both of them. "Why not put a hit on Tommy, sit back, and wait?"

"Okay, Navarro's after you," Diana said, "you've got a briefcase full of cash, and you need to disappear... what do you do?"

Everybody's eyes turned to Neal, who leaned on one of the windowsills. The kid sure enjoyed the attention.

"Guys…" he grinned with all the charm turned on. "Well, the first thing I'd do is get rid of my phone and credit cards."

"Which he did," Peter nodded.

"Hop on a plane," Jones suggested.

"Airport security's tight. You pay cash for a ticket, that's a red flag," Neal said. Mozzie made a gesture, and Neal continued: "Plus, it's risky. You sit in one place too long, people remember you."

"Oh, and bus stations," Mozzie added, "are the first place you people always put 'wanted' posters."

Peter nodded.

"Trains are no good," he said. "You get on one, you're stuck."

"Unless you're a fan of the jump-and-roll," the kid said, "which I'm not."

"I'd just drive," Diana added. "But Tommy doesn't have a car."

"And all the limos at his company are in his lot." Jones had done his homework.

"You could boost one, but that's risky." Mozzie was sure eager to help.

"And you can't get a rental with cash anymore." No? Peter wondered if he should be worried that Neal knew that.

"Cash…" Peter followed the thought. "What about a taxi?"

The kid nodded.

"A couple grand will get you across a few state lines."

"Diana, get eyes on the airports, bus, and train stations. Start with the cab companies. I'll prep tactical. Jones, you're on audio."

"Hey, what team am I on?" Mozzie raised his hand.

"You're not. Neal's taking you home."

The short guy was baffled. But so was the kid. He was by Peter's side in seconds while the others filed out.

"Hey, you're sidelining me now?" he hissed. "Disappearing is what I do. Did," he corrected himself. "But I am a wealth of information!"

Well, it was not so much about Neal but about getting his friend out.

"Mozzie is too close to handle a ransom situation," Peter explained. "I'll call if I need anything. That's it." He was firm on this, and Neal did not argue. He could not risk having Mozzie around. All he hoped was that that acceptance from Neal was understanding and cooperation and not trouble.

"Come on, Moz."

"Suit." The short guy did not seem too happy either.

Peter paused Jones as he passed him on the way out. He made sure the two guys were out of hearing distance.

"Keep an eye on those two."

Jones smiled.

"With pleasure."


	6. That Spanish Harlem job

Of course, Neal did not take Mozzie home. Simply because he did not know where home was for his friend. Neal had based on Mozzie's paranoia and wish to stay out of the grid, formed an idea that Moz had several places where he could stay and probably used some random or non-random schedule. He had asked about it once or twice and got a typical Mozzie-answer in return and Neal had left it there.

They walked to Neal's apartment.

"You know, the Suit told you to take me home," Moz said on the way there.

"You want me to follow you to your place?" Neal was utterly surprised.

"No, but the Suit asked you, so he could find out where I live. I have a place prepared that we can go to."

Neal figured Peter had other things on his mind than tracking his pet convict's anklet at the moment.

"Wouldn't it be a great idea if Peter spent his time finding Gina instead of a goose chase down the wrong alley? I bet he put someone to watch us anyway."

"You're right. It's hard for me to actually accept that the authorities are actually working in my favor this time."

"And you've been in Peter's office, working with the feds," Neal grinned.

"I'm not prone to nightmares, but that might actually give me some."

When they arrived at Neal's place Mozzie insisted on scanning the place for bugs. It was something they did together about once a week already. And Neal sometimes guessed his regular guest did it on his own when he was alone in the apartment.

"Oh, your friend the mini Suit is across the street," Mozzie noted.

"Mini suit?" Neal looked out from the window and saw Jones. Neal picked up his phone and called him.

"Yes, Caffrey?" Jones answered.

"Don't you want to come up? It's warmer."

"No offense, Caffrey, but I'm on the job and I prefer to do it by the book."

"None taken. Call me if you change your mind." He hung up. Pity. He liked Jones.

There was not much more they could do but wait. Neal could handle idleness. He had four years of practice. Mozzie on the other hand had not. He walked back and forth.

"I knew something was wrong at the diner," he said. "I should've done something."

"Don't blame yourself, Moz. Peter will find Tommy. He found me. Twice."

"He knew you," Mozzie objected to the theory. "He knew where you'd go."

That was a difference. Neal could not object to that. But there was another difference too.

"When he found me, I wasn't running away."

"Yeah," Moz agreed. "You were running toward something."

"Toward someone. Kate." Neal pushed that memory away and focused on the task at hand. "You think Tommy's the kind of guy who'd stick around for a girl?"

"All I know is that Gina's the kind of girl worth sticking around for."

"Peter works one side, we'll work the other," Neal said and rose from coach's armrest where he had been sitting. "Let's say Tommy is a version of you. You decide to wait around, and when things cool off, you find Gina and take off together."

"All I'd need is one thing." The enthusiasm shone through Mozzie's voice.

"A new identity," Neal grinned.

"In times of crisis, people tend to go where they feel safe. Tommy grew up in Tudor city."

"You got a look at his file." It was hard not to smile at that. Mozzie was curious and with his memory he just needed a quick peek to find out what he wanted.

"With one eye. The only decent I.D. guy left in the east 40s is Devlin."

"Devlin?" Neal had used him a couple of times. Mozzie did not seem happy. "Oh. You two go way back?"

"Ever since that Spanish Harlem job went bad, he secretly hates me. If he wasn't so jumpy… I mean, if you can't handle stress, try needlepoint."

"All right, so, Devlin won't just hand over a name…" Could he go by himself? No, leaving Mozzie alone at this time would not be a good idea. "Is Jones still outside?"

They went to the window. There was a van. At least he did not have to stand outside.

"Apparently we're deserving of 'round-the-clock supervision. Sneaking out would be risky."

"We won't be sneaking out, Moz. Remember where they should keep their focus?"

"Gina."

"Tomorrow we go for a walk."

"Tomorrow?! Gina could be dead by then!"

"No, Moz, remember the message. Five pm."

"Yeah…"

"Relax. We'll have that name by breakfast tomorrow. I'll make us some dinner."

“What do you want, Caffrey?” Jones answered. Neal watched him from across the street. They had found Devlin buying breakfast at a waffle stall by the sidewalk.

“I need you to do me a favor,” Neal said, waving to the agent.

“I'm not doing anything illegal.”

Of course not.

“Did you ever see ‘Scarface’?” he asked.

“No.”

Oh. Well, he could explain. It was not difficult. He did and then hurried to catch Devlin as he got his order in a bag from the waffle stall.

“Neal Caffrey!” Devlin smiled. “Man, it's been a long time. Hey, Moz. You're looking good.”

“Devlin,” Mozzie greeted him. “I see you haven't lost your penchant for shameless self-promotion.” Mozzie gestured to the man’s T-shirt with the text ‘I DO ID’ on it.

“You guys are a long way from home.”

“Yeah, we were just in the neighborhood,” Neal said, “thought we'd grab some coffee.” Mozzie looked over his shoulder once again and left them to go to the waffle stall.

“What's with him?”

Neal waited for a moment as if he needed a moment to consider.

“This guy over there,” Neal said, nodding towards Jones. “He's…”

“Neal!” Mozzie warned.

“He's a fed. We noticed him following us a while back.” Jones stared at them across the street with an intimidating pose.

“You serious?” Devlin asked. Moz had been right. The guy was jumpy.

“Powdered sugar?” Moz asked from the stall. Neal joined him.

“What are you doing, man?” Mozzie asked a little too loud. “A fed?”

“What? He believed me. As if I'm gonna tell Devlin that guy works for Navarro.”

“What?” Devlin asked, now buy their sides. Naturally, he had been eavesdropping. Hard not to. “That guy works for Navarro? What are you guys into?”

“Nothing, okay?” Neal said but Devlin did not buy that. “Guy from around here named Tommy Barnes stole a hundred grand from Navarro. Word is, somebody made him a fake ID.”

“Oh, crap, man.”

“Navarro thinks I did it,” Moz said. 

“Holy crap, man.”

“Here he comes. Vouch for me, all right, Devlin?” Moz asked. “You owe me from that Spanish Harlem… debacle.”

Devlin grinned.

“Moz, I got your back, man.”

“You,” Jones pointed at Mozzie as good as any gangster.

“You got the wrong guy. I swear!” Mozzie, as usual, should work on his acting skills, but Devlin was to up in his own worries to notice.

“Look, man. Hi. I know who you are, okay? I don't want any trouble. That guy there, he was just bragging about an ID he made for a guy named Tommy Barnes.”

“I did no such thing!” Mozzie protested. “I don't have a death wish!”

“Hey! He told me Tommy's new name is Sam Brennan. Okay? Sam Brennan. That's what he said.”

Neal saw Jones had to fight to keep his posture.

“Both of you better come with me.” Jones grabbed their arms and pulled them along. 

“I won't forget this, Devlin!” Mozzie added for the show. Devlin was sure happy to see them go. Neal made a mental note not to use Devlin again.

“Oh, you guys have more fun than we do,” Jones said when they were out of hearing distance. Back turned to Devlin he could grin all the way over this face.

“Whatever, Travolta,” Neal said wondering if the fact that he was pulling two con-men along helped to that grin.

They turned a corner and Jones let go of them.

“Thanks for joining the show,” Neal said.

“My pleasure. I’ve to call Peter.”

For once Peter’s thoughts had not circled around Neal that night. Not that he spent every night thinking about his pet convict, but too often he had a feeling Neal was up to something. This time he was utterly certain that the kid was not the problem but Mozzie, and somehow Peter was certain Neal would keep the guy out of trouble. At least concerning the case of Gina. Besides, Jones was there to keep an eye on them.

Back at the office in the morning, he gathered all available agents in the conference room.

“Surveillance outpost is being set up a block from the drop site,” he explained, walking around the table. “Cameras and mikes on exterior. Tactical is on the move. Any questions?”

There was none. But it was not of the kind that said they were well informed. It was because there was too little info and Peter had none more to give them.

“We will bring Tommy in,” he assured them. “There will be a drop.”

“I have good news,” Diana said in the doorway.

“I need good news.”

“A taxi driver came forward. A man matching Tommy's description caught a cab near the park yesterday. Said he'd give him five thousand dollars to drive him to Chicago without calling it in.”

“Why's the driver talking?”

“Because Tommy only gave him four hundred. He made him turn around at the Jersey turnpike. But look at what he paid with,” she said and pulled out something from the envelope she held. It was four hundred bill notes in evidence bags.

Peter held them up flipping between them.

“These are sequential bills.” No normal human being could have four bills printed after each other in their purse.

“Tommy hasn't made any withdrawals,” Diana said, “so he's using the money he took from Sal's.”

“Navarro's laundering money through Sal's,” Peter realized.

“That's why he wants that particular hundred grand back.”

“Because it can be traced. This could blow up Navarro's entire enterprise.” Wow. He had better handle this right. His phone rang. “Yeah, Jones?”

“Peter, I'm with Caffrey and the little guy. We got a tip that Tommy Barnes has a new ID. Sam Brennan.” 

“Thanks, Jones.” He ended the call. He wanted to hear that story someday and it better be all legal. “All right, run the name ‘Sam Brennan.’ Hit the hotels and motels. He'll be the one paying cash.”


	7. Blind spot

Peter stood by an ATM and saw Tommy coming down the sidewalk. He turned his head to the display, and Tommy passed him without taking any notice.

"Tommy," Peter called after him. Tommy stopped and turned. "Your name's Sam now, remember?" He held up his ID and walked closer. Tommy turned but found Diana blocking his escape route, showing both badge and gun. "Special Agent Burke, FBI."

Diana slipped his wallet from his pocket and searched it. There were a bunch of hundred dollar bills.

"Same sequence as the bills from the cab," she said. "Rest in your safe in the hotel?" she asked Tommy, who looked like a scared rabbit caught in a cage.

"Yeah."

"Get E.R.T. on it," he instructed Diana. "Let Neal and Mozzie know we've got Tommy." Perhaps that could make the two of them relax a little and not do their own thing. But he owed them for Tommy's new name. He watched Tommy. "We need to talk."

"All right."

Peter grabbed his arm.

"Come on."

He took him to the car where Jones waited. Peter got Tommy into the backseat, and he and Jones returned to the headquarters. Jones guided Tommy to the interview room.

"How'd you get your hands on this money?" Peter asked, holding the first batch of bills, each in an evidence bag.

"A few nights ago, I did a drop at Sal's," Tommy said. "There were some briefcases. Nobody was looking." The opportunity makes the thief, Peter thought.

"Navarro has Gina," Peter told him, and by his look, he guessed Tommy knew this. "We don't know where. He's threatening to kill her. There's a way to make this right. Want to set things right, Tommy?"

"I love Gina."

"Snipers on the north and south rooftops. Mobile and foot units around the perimeter," Peter showed on the whiteboard. "We'll have undercover agents placed as vendors. But watch this area... it's a blind spot, access to the subways. We don't have enough manpower to cover the trains. I want you ready to move in when we get Gina's coordinates. Remember, the color of the day is orange."

"Uh, Gina's favorite!" the short guy spoke.

"He'll stay out of the way," Neal assured him.

"He'd better," Peter sighed. He wished he could have had them locked up for the next hours but had found no legal grounds for it on short notice. To have Neal and Mozzie in a place where he could see them had felt like the second-best move. "All right! Let's move out!"

People buckled up with their rifles and other equipment and left one by one from the abandoned office to take their spots outside without getting attention.

Diana took Tommy to prep him with a microphone.

Then he heard Mozzie's voice.

"…and these things go wrong a lot… then he's gonna take you… if not, then…"

"Neal!" Diana yelled and pushed Mozzie out of a room. 

"What?" Mozzie protested. "You do realize Navarro's gonna think he bought that flashy watch with the money, right?"

The kid was there in an instant.

"What are you doing, Moz?"

"I'm explaining the risks when he's out there. Gina's life in his hands… he doesn't screw it up!"

Peter wished he had broken the law and left Mozzie tied to a chair in a locked room inside an aquarium somewhere.

"Get him out of here," Diana ordered, and Neal was eager to comply.

"No!" Peter stopped them. "I want him where I can see him. That chair." He pointed. "Don't move. Don't speak. Sit. Read a book." None of the two objected, and Mozzie sat down.

"Okay, folks, Navarro's here with two guards," Jones called out from behind his monitor, "and they brought artillery. Looks like mp5s and ACPs."

"This is it! Everyone in position! Everyone in a vest!" Peter ordered. "Tommy, you ready?"

"We got you covered from every angle," Diana assured him.

"No, I can't go out there."

"Look, if Navarro sees anyone but you out there," Peter said, "we risk losing Gina."

"I'm confounded by what Gina sees in you!" Mozzie was on his feet. "You ran away once, but you turned around and came back. Man up!" Peter kept his mouth shut because, for once, the short guy might have said the right thing to get this work. Tommy's eyes moved from Mozzie to Diana and then to Peter. Then he bolted for the door.

"Tommy, get back here!" Peter called, and an agent stopped the fleeing man. Peter glared at Mozzie. "You're three seconds away from being arrested." He caught up with their desperate thief. "Tommy, if you love her, then you have to go, and I mean now."

"Just walk out there and give him the money," Neal encouraged.

"H… he's gonna kill me."

"Uh, guys…" Jones said. "We got a problem at the drop point."

"What do you mean, a problem?"

They gathered around his screen.

"Where's Mozzie?" Neal asked.

Peter saw a man approach Navarro on Jones' screen.

"Not another step," they heard Navarro's voice over the speakers. So Mozzie got himself a microphone.

"He just walked into the drop," Peter said.

"Just walk out there and give him the money," Neal told the terrified Tommy. No one would expect Tommy to be anything but scared, including Navarro.

"H… he's gonna kill me."

"Uh, guys…" Jones interrupted. "We got a problem at the drop point."

"What do you mean, a problem?" Peter asked.

Peter rushed towards Jones' screen.

Neal looked around and passed Mozzie's chair. It was empty.

"Where's Mozzie?"

"Not another step," they heard Navarro's voice over the speakers. But Tommy was still in the room.

"He just walked into the drop," Peter replied. What? Neal joined him by the screen. There was his friend in front of Navarro and his goons holding up his hands.

"Who the hell are you? Search him."

"I work for Tommy," Mozzie said. "I'm his intermediary. Hands!" he protested as he was searched. "I can get you the rest." So he had taken some of Tommy's stolen money.

"Where is he going with this?" his handler asked, but Neal had no idea.

"Let's hope he gets there fast," Diana said.

"Tell Tommy I can guarantee quick... but not painless," Navarro told Mozzie. "He'll know what I mean." The gangster turned and walked away.

"You're an idiot!" Mozzie called at the man's back. That sure stopped the man in his tracks. "You think Tommy's phone was encrypted? Your message was intercepted by the feds. You think this is a secure spot? Look up. There's a sniper. There's another one. Guy tying his shoe… agent. Lady with the fruit cart… agent. We're surrounded. They've been on to you since Sal's."

Neal closed his eyes, wishing he and Mozzie were somewhere else. Now Mozzie would never, ever be able to be near the FBI again, and that would make things more complicated for him. 

"How did you know about that?"

"Oh, please, this is right out of the book," Moz replied. "Page 73, paragraph 2, line 5, and paragraph 4, line 7. Right out of the book!" Neal blinked. There had been nothing 'out of the book' in this case.

Did they just hear a gun unsecured as Navarro put a hand on Mozzie's shoulder?

"Where's Tommy? Where's my money?"

"This is not blowing up under my watch," Peter said. "We got to move. Go! Go!" he called into the radio, and people in body armor floated in from all directions.

"You know so much," Navarro said to Mozzie. "You know a way out?"

"Subway was the only place they couldn't cover. Lucky for you, I got a metro card."

Navarro jammed a gun up his friend's back and walked towards the metro.

"He knows that is our blind spot!" Peter yelled, throwing the radio on to the desk. "What is he thinking?!"

"Page 73, paragraph 2, line 5. Is that from the FBI field manual?" Neal asked.

"No." Peter's phone rang. "It's Hughes. Yes, sir?"

If it was not the FBI field manual, then what book was Mozzie referring to? He was the book his friend had brought from his bag in the few minutes he actually managed to sit on the chair as told. A.B. Tattersall, 'Scoppa's Escape.' He opened to page 73. Found paragraph two and the fifth line. The last word was 'perfect.' He moved to section four, line seven: 'exchange.' Neal knew what that meant.


	8. Perfect Exchange

Neal was within the range of what his tracker permitted so he did not bother do catch Peter's attention that he left. He knew Peter would call or check the anklet before doing anything more drastic. Besides, he was not out of bounds. Just leaving work a bit too low key.

He hurried home and changed to something less formal, more blending in, and most of all: dark colors.

When he opened the door to leave he found Peter waiting right outside the door, holding up the book on page 73.

"What's the 'perfect exchange'?" his handler asked.

Neal considered a second, then he smiled. Peter was the smartest man he ever met. And he had no need to keep him out of this. He let his friend in.

"Coffee?" He was already preparing.

"Aren't you in a rush?"

"Well, in a way, but it will take some time before you're prepared to join me, right?"

"If you want me to tag along, it can't be that illegal." Peter smiled, but he was curious too, Neal could tell.

"It's not illegal at all, actually. Does that mean we can go right away?"

"No."

Fortunately two cups of coffee did not take long to make.

"Have a seat, Peter."

Neal filled the cups.

"Whatever it is, money for a painting, drugs, or a person," Neal begun, placing the cup in front of Peter sitting on the sofa. He sat down in the armchair opposite "the hand-off's always a problem. It all comes down to trust." And trust was not something common among criminals unfortunately.

"How do you know the bad guy won't shoot you," Peter said, "keep the money and the valuable jewels slash masterpiece slash bond certificate?"

"Exactly. So, one night, over a bottle of Armagnac, Mozzie and I figured out the perfect way to do it."

"That why you're wearing your cat-burglar outfit?" Peter asked. He had of course noticed.

"I'm a New Yorker. We like black."

"Mm-hmm," Peter returned with that little smile they both knew what it meant.

"Let's start with the 'where,'" Neal continued. "It must be a neutral location. Both parts comes unarmed. To make sure this happens the neutral location must be a place where no guns are allowed and the security is good."

"Like the Statue of Liberty?"

Neal shook his head.

"No. Security is key. You need metal detectors, but not scanners. You want to get a bag of money and a canvas in. No big bags allowed out to the Statue of Liberty. Besides, being on an island is not a good move."

Peter nodded to this.

"Good point. Just so I'm clear, Gina's the canvas?"

"Right. You also need a building with a public space on the roof," Neal grinned. "We decided on the Sutherland."

"So this is where Mozzie will arrange for this to happen? When?"

"The meet has to happen during business hours. You want people around to distract from the hand-off. The Sutherland's book collection's valuable enough to warrant guards. With this both parts can alert the guards if the other does something out of protocol. It's designed to keep both sides in check and on task. It's about the exchange, nothing else. Everybody wins."

"I like it…" Peter said and sighed, "except for one thing."

Neal frowned. What had they missed?

"What's that?"

"Nothing's perfect."

Neal grinned and rose.

"You've not heard all of it. It's perfect because one side will always try to outsmart the other. Navarro knows that Tommy can't walk in with a weapon."

"So Navarro's gonna make sure that there's one waiting for him when he gets there."

"We stake out the library," Neal said. Now Peter rose too.

"Wait until one of Navarro's guys show up."

"He'll keep an eye on the place, make sure Tommy doesn't have the same idea. Then he'll plant the gun. We'll just follow Navarro's guy back to Mozzie."

"Let's get this moving." They left and jogged down the stairs and got to the car. "So that was were you were going, to stake out the library?"

"Yeah."

They got inside and Peter drove.

"Ever considered to tell me about it?"

"Don't know why, but I have this impression that for my ideas to be approved it needs to be processed. A lot. And it takes time. We don't have that now."

"I know. That's why we are heading to the library as we speak."

Neal smiled.

It did not take many minutes waiting in the car outside on the corner of Riverside drive before Neal dozed off. Peter gave him a notch.

"I know this is boring, but stay awake."

"I haven't slept since this whole thing started," the kid said, blinking. So this was affecting him?

"Stomach hurt?"

"A little bit."

"Got that parched thing happening?"

"Yeah. My mouth's a little dry." Neal glanced at him wondering where he was going. Worry and fear.

"Well, hold on to that feeling," Peter said. "Remember it the next time you decide to infiltrate the den of a mobster on a whim or something equally cockeyed."

"Thanks for sharing your feelings, Peter," the kid replied, not happy for the reprimand. "I know that's sometimes difficult for you."

"You're welcome." A car parked on the other side of the street and a man stepped out. He looked pretty much as the guy he had seen on the screens an hour and a half ago. "That looks like Navarro's guy."

"He's here to plant the gun."

"We follow him back to Mozzie, it'll all be over," Peter assured his pet convict.

"I hope so."

It was rather funny when you came to think about it, that they used Neal's and Mozzie's plan for something far less legal to… He frowned. He suddenly saw a flaw in the whole setup.

"Oh, that's reassuring," the kid said staring at his face.

"The 'Perfect exchange.' When did you pull it off?" Peter asked, hoping for a detail in the picture that made all safe again.

"A certain FBI agent came into my life. I didn't get the chance."

"So it's hypothetical?"

"Yeah."

"What happens to the middleman?" Peter asked.

"We didn't have one."

That explained why the kid had not came to the same conclusion as he.

"When Vince tells Navarro that the gun's in place, he's got his meeting time, location, and a stashed weapon."

Neal's eyes went wide, getting it.

"Mozzie's about to become irrelevant."

Of course, the next thing he was about to do was burst out of the car in front of Navarro's guy. Peter stopped him.

"I want to go in there," Neal explained.

"Hold on."

"I—" Peter sent him a look that shut him up.

"Stay here. I mean it."

Peter got out of the car the second Navarro's guy turned his back to the street. Before the man had got the door open, Peter had jogged up and up to him and put a gun to his head.

"Take me to Navarro."

It took the goon a second to raise his hands.

"I don't know what you're talking about, man."

"Yes, you do. Hands behind your back." Peter prayed the man would not ask for his lawyer. He locked the cuffs on the man and made a quick search, finding a gun. He disarmed it. "It's Navarro I want not you. I'm sure you've got a lot to tell if you get a sweet deal. Now, take me to him, or just you go down." No lies. Just facts.

Peter pulled him across the street and got him inside the back seat.

"So, where is Navarro?" he asked as he sat down in the front street. And Navarro's guy told him.

Peter got the car moving and called Jones to get a team there as fast as possible.

Peter and Neal got there first. They pushed the button for the elevators and it felt like ages before they came to the right floor.

"I don't want you shot," he said not Neal, who nodded and agreed to wait outside.

Peter pulled his gun and rushed into the apartment.

"FBI! Drop your weapon!" he yelled and saw Mozzie at gunpoint. More guns were drawn. "Drop it!" He swung towards Navarro "Stay where you are!"

Mozzie used the situation and grabbed his opponents gun, pointing it back at his attacker. Great, Mozzie armed, Peter thought, and realized Navarro had used the moment too, pulling out his gun.

"Put your gun down."

He had four guns aimed at him now.

"You keep showing up," Navarro said. "I don't like surprises. And I don't like feds."

"You know what else you're not gonna like? Prison. Drop your weapon."

"Oh, I don't plan to go to prison." Navarro raised his gun, fully aware of the odds in his favor.

"FBI! Drop your weapons!" Jones yelled, invading the room together with a team in body armor. "Drop your weapons now! Put them down!"

Peter smiled at Navarro's baffled face.

"Looks like your plans just changed."

Everyone, including Navarro, surrendered. Mozzie lowered the gun and breathed like a rusty squeeze box. Neal rushed in and to his friend's side at once.

"Moz! Hey. You okay?"

The short guy nodded.

"Middleman," the Peter's favorite two criminals said at the same time.

"Yeah," the kid nodded. "We might want to rename the 'Perfect exchange.'"

Peter hovered closer, wanting to get that gun from Mozzie. It was no big deal. Mozzie held it out as something the cat brought in.

"I got it, I got it," Peter assured him.

"Deep breaths, buddy," Neal said.

Gina appeared from the room next door and rushed up and kissed and hugged Mozzie. The couple laughed. Well, the guy did not need to be taller than the gal, Peter thought. He had figured Gina to be shorter.

Mozzie's choices in life was not his business, but would never make a date for breaking up. On the other hand, Mozzie had on several occasions pointed out the risks Neal took with his choses when it came to love. Since he had ended up in prison he figured he had even less to say than before.

"How many dinners with Elizabeth have you missed because of me?" he asked Peter as they waited outside the diner, waiting for Mozzie, who for some reason had wanted them there.

"I don't keep count," Peter replied. "Well, I've lost count." But Elizabeth and Peter was still together. That was good. Somehow he would have hated to cause them to break up. "But Mozzie had you worried." Neal had to agree with that. "How does it feel to walk a mile in my shoes?"

No he was not picking up the bait.

"I prefer Italian leather." Mozzie came out and joined them. "How's Gina?"

"She's showing signs of a bodyguard complex. I told her some distance between us would be good."

"Yeah, a guy like you needs his space," Neal agreed.

"So, we heading to the Bureau?" Mozzie passed between them and walked ahead. Peter stared at Neal then got his feet moving too.

"I got the FBI on board with Caffrey, but you? I don't even know your real name. And I've looked."

Mozzie turned his head to Neal and sent him a smile. Neal smiled back. Still Mozzie was invisible. He would not be found unless he wanted to.

"Thanks for the pen, by the way," Neal told Peter.

"What pen? I got…" Peter did not find his fine pen in his inner jacket pocket. Neal picked it out of his own.

"Earned it," Neal insisted. "It's mine now."

"Give me that pen. It's not yours, no."

They kept bickering. They turned into a street with more people. Peter stopped and looked around.

"Where's Mozzie?"


	9. Meet Sara Ellis

"Are we going to Montebello?" the kid asked after awhile of walking on streets less used on their lunch hour.

"Yep." Peter agreed.

"The Times food critic called it the best new restaurant in Manhattan."

"Yep. Gave it three stars."

"They practice molecular gastronomy."

Peter frowned.

"What?" It sure did not sound like a smashing log line for a restaurant. Neal however was excited as a little kid.

"It's a revolution in fine dining where chefs use biochemistry to create new and exotic dishes."

"A grill works just fine for me." The thought of paying money for anything but decent food was appalling.

"Every dish is a work of art," his pet convict continued totally lost in thought about what Peter was not even sure he would consider as food. "I'm surprised you chose Montebello. It's expensive. I'm impressed."

Peter frowned. He had not thought Neal that naive. He should know this type of restaurant would never be his cup of tea.

"Oh, we're not eating there."

The stare he got from the kid was almost heartbreaking. Peter continued ahead. Neal was not a kid.

"Okay, Peter, this is like me taking you to Yankee stadium, then listening to the game in the parking lot."

"It's a meeting place," Peter defended himself. "I didn't pick it."

"Who did?"

"The insurance investigator."

"Insurance? Great." Peter was not surprised to the tone he got in return. Insurance investigators had been chasing Neal Caffrey, too. Though they had no authority to arrest him, they did not have the same obligations and paperwork either. He was pretty sure some of them had been nasty and been in a gray area for legal behavior themselves.

"Someone stole a hundred million in Japanese bearer bonds," Peter told him.

"Samurai bonds. Nice," the kid grinned. "That's what they're call on the street." That was not why he had been glaring at Neal. It was for the tone. Had Neal stolen or forged that kind of bonds without him having a clue?

"Now I've got your interest."

"Who's the investigator?"

"She has a suspect here in Manhattan."

"She?" Neal stopped at once. "Wait, wait. Is it…?" Peter nodded. There could only be one Neal meant. "No…" He nodded again. The kid was so pail that Peter had a hard time not to smile to wide. "It is?"

"Yep."

Peter walked ahead living Neal to collect himself. He saw Sara Ellis on the sidewalk outside Montebello. She saw him and smiled.

"Agent Burke, it's nice to see you." Her face changed when she saw who came behind him. "Neal Caffrey. It's been a while." That was chilly enough to give a beer a nice temperature.

"Sara," Neal replied, charm on for sure. "Nearly five years since you testified at my trial. Against me." Not a tone of forgiveness there. But Sara had a different opinion about the kid than he, and expressed it very clearly at the trial.

"You did steal a painting insured by my employer for several million dollars," she said, smiling in return.

"Not according to a jury of my peers."

"I thought all your peers they all were in prison."

Peter's eyes went from one to another. Were these two adults?

"A few of us managed to stay out."

"I could fix that."

"Sorry to break up this happy reunion," Peter interrupted. "But we're here to talk about the samurai bonds." Sara's eyebrows went up and Peter realized he had used Neal's term for them. "That's what they call them out on the street."

"We're not here to talk about them," Sara objected. "We're here to find them."

She had always been a woman of action.

"A girl's got to make a living," Neal said.

"My fees are based on recovery, so, yeah."

Her eyes trailed away into the restaurant.

"Sara?"

Her focus returned and she handed him a file.

"My company, Sterling Bosch, insured a hundred million in non-government Japanese bearer bonds."

"A hundred million Yen or U.S. dollars?" the kid asked.

"Dollars."

"And if you recover them?"

"2 percent." A big fee, but an insecure income. "The truck was hijacked in transport," she told him, "and I think the bonds are somewhere here in New York."

"She believes Edgar Halbridge is involved," Peter updated the kid.

"Bi-international real-estate guy," he said, showing off. "He can move them without raising flags."

"Yes, he can," Sara said. "Excuse me."

She left them and walked over to a car the valet just drove to the entrance.

"Emilio's just inside," she said and got the keys to the car. "Thank you so much."

"You!" an man exiting the restaurant called out. "That's my car! Get away from it!"

He saw Neal watching the scene just as interested as he.

"Emilio, listen to me. You can change the vin numbers, you can change the grill, the paint. It's still a Mercedes SLR. I know, because you didn't change electronic vin behind the steering wheel."

"You're crazy! You're just stealing my car!"

"You stole it. I'm taking it back."

The man's hand moved inside the jacket and so did Peter's. But Sara was quicker. She had a telescope baton out and placed it on his arm.

"Don't make a scene." Emilio did not agree and Sara smacked him on the side of his knee. "You can file a complaint with my friend from the FBI."

She nodded towards Peter and continued to the car. Peter sighed and pulled out his ID. He had nothing on his guy and had to hope that Sara Ellis did. She most likely had all he could possibly need. Still, he did not like being second to see it.

"Hi, there. Special Agent Burke, FBI."

"This is just a misunderstanding. I should just..." He limbed away from them.

"You should stop walking and put your hand above your head."

"Yeah, running just annoys him," the kid said and left him to join Sara by the car.

While Peter cuffed the man the car took off and he saw Neal watching it go.

"So happy to have you back in my life."

“Every dish is a work of art,” he mused, looking forward to seeing it with his own eyes. And eat there too. “I'm surprised you chose Montebello. It's expensive. I'm impressed.” It was not the kind of place Peter usually picked. Maybe he wanted to do something to make his protege happy?

“Oh, we're not eating there.”

Neal stopped but Peter continued, so he got his feet moving again, somehow. How could he say that without a warning? Did he not understand?

“Okay, Peter, this is like me taking you to Yankee stadium, then listening to the game in the parking lot.”

“It's a meeting place,” Peter shrugged like it made a difference. “I didn't pick it.”

“Who did?”

“The insurance investigator.”

This day's lunch hour just turned worse than he thought possible. Insurance investigators did not need much evidence to stalk him.

“Insurance? Great.”

“Someone stole a hundred million in Japanese bearer bonds.”

“Samurai bonds,” Neal grinned. “Nice.” Hard to find for an investigator, but easier for him and Peter. He saw his handler looking at him. “That's what they're call on the street.”

“Now I've got your interest.” He was right there. Maybe this could be fun after all.

“Who's the investigator?”

“She has a suspect here in Manhattan.”

“She?” And Peter had not answered the question. He stopped. “Wait, wait. Is it…?” Peter nodded. It could not be Sara Ellis, could it? “No…” Please… But Peter continued to nod. “It is?”

“Yep.”

He was not sure if he knew or guessed that they had been cooperating before his arrest, but it had never crossed his mind that they would do so now. He had hoped she would be a one-time appearance in his life. Well, he was a somewhat trusted man these days, and a lot to be proud of on the legal side. He adjusted his suit and caught up with Peter who just said his greetings to her.

“Agent Burke, it's nice to see you.” The smile disappeared. “Neal Caffrey. It's been a while.” She had rather not seen him too it seemed, but she did come, knowing he would come. She did not seem surprised to see him.

“Sara. Nearly five years since you testified at my trial. Against me.”

“You did steal a painting insured by my employer for several million dollars.” As if it was a fact. 

“Not according to a jury of my peers,” he reminded her.

“I thought all your peers they all were in prison.” 

“A few of us managed to stay out.”

“I could fix that,” she snapped back.

“Sorry to break up this happy reunion, but we're here to talk about the samurai bonds,” Peter said and Neal smiled at the expression. “That's what they call them out on the street.”

“We're not here to talk about them. We're here to find them.” Good luck with that, Neal thought. You are too easy to fool.

“A girl's got to make a living,” he smiled.

“My fees are based on recovery, so, yeah.” Did she not get a salary with just a little bonus? That could explain some of her peer's behavior.

“Sara?” Peter asked her when she seemed absentminded.

“My company, Sterling Bosch, insured a hundred million in non-government Japanese bearer bonds,” she refocused and handed Peter a file.

“A hundred million Yen or U.S. dollars?”

“Dollars.” She talked to him and did not treat him like air. That was a good sign.

“And if you recover them?” he pressed on.

“2 percent.” On a hundred million. Not bad. “The truck was hijacked in transport,” she told Peter, “and I think the bonds are somewhere here in New York.”

“She believes Edgar Halbridge is involved,” his handler told him.

“Bi-international real-estate guy.” That was an interesting idea. “He can move them without raising flags.”

“Yes, he can,” Sara agreed. “Excuse me.”

She left them and Peter looked as baffled as he felt. She did not go far. A valet parked a car right outside. An expensive car by the look of it.

“Emilio's just inside,” she beamed towards the valet who gave her the keys without asking any questions. “Thank you so much.”

“You! That's my car! Get away from it!” The man who was probably Emilio emerged from the restaurant. So she had kept an eye on him while talking to Peter.

“Emilio, listen to me,” she began. “You can change the vin numbers, you can change the grill, the paint. It's still a Mercedes SLR. I know, because you didn't change electronic vin behind the steering wheel.”

“You're crazy! You're just stealing my car!”

“You stole it. I'm taking it back.” Neal watched amazed how the woman now was armed with a telescope baton and stopped him. “Don't make a scene.” Why would he not? She smacked him on the side of the knee and Neal suddenly remembered why he disliked insurance investigators. “You can file a complaint with my friend from the FBI.”

“Hi, there. Special Agent Burke, FBI,” Peter showed his ID.

“This is just a misunderstanding. I should just...”

“You should stop walking and put your hand above your head.” If you could call that limping a walk.

“Yeah, running just annoys him.” Sara was on her way to take the car. He stopped her from closing the door. “So you're basically a high-class repo man.”

“Well, I prefer white-collar bounty hunter,” she answered. She was not hostile, just… not interested.

“You should put that on your business card.”

“This is a limited edition SLR,” she explained as if she had found a new best lover. “Worth 450,000 dollars.”

“Making your cut nine thousand. Not a bad score on your lunch break.”

“No, it's not,” she agreed. “Speaking of business cards…” she continued and brought out her own and handed it to him. “When you feel like turning in that Raphael, please call me.”

He looked at her quite baffled. If he had managed so far, he sure was not going to just hand it over to her so she could earn money.

“I wouldn't wait by the phone.”

“See you tomorrow, Caffrey.”

She closed the door and drive off.

“So happy to have you back in my life.”

No, she could not be charmed, but not because she was not interested in men, but because he was another type of challenge she could not let go. And she was the only one that had been close to finding the Raphael. Not even Peter had been near as close. And Neal had a nagging feeling that she knew she had been close.


	10. Breaking ice

Neal waited to let Mozzie check out the hangar.

"It's clear."

For a microsecond, Neal got cold feet. He wore a tracking anklet, and Peter would know where he had been. And he was trespassing. Then curiosity took the doubt away, and he joined Mozzie. They stood up on the balcony and watched the pieces of the blown-up airplane arranged on the ground below them.

"Come on," Mozzie said, and they walked down the stairs.

As they got closer, the burnt skeleton of the airplane got to him. It still smelled as it did when it was on fire when Peter had pulled him back.

"You okay?" A justified question, Neal realized. He was leaning forward, hands on his knees.

"Yeah," he rose. "Kate was sitting on the left side..." he pointed and walked 'inside' the plane, "by the window."

He sat down on his heels by Kate's chair. It was black as charcoal, only the metal left. Still, he was afraid he would see something of her there.

"Definitely no accident."

Neal glanced up at Mozzie.

"Did you ever think it was?"

"No."

"A mechanical failure wouldn't cause an explosion by the door." Neal was no flight engineer, but there were not that many places on an airplane that could generate an explosion.

"I bet it was set to explode the plane in mid-air," Mozzie said.

"It went off early."

"Or… someone… set it off early." Moz studied what was left of the cockpit.

"What about the black box?"

"The whole tail's missing."

"Excuse me!" a voice called out. "Who are you?"

"You said the guard's route takes 15 minutes," Neal whispered to Mozzie.

"That's not the guard," his friend whispered back.

"All right. Just follow me on this one." He rose.

"What are you doing in here?" the man asked.

"Morning. We're with Sterling Bosch." Neal glanced at the man's id, hanging around his neck. FAA Security, Roy Disson. "You're Roy?"

"Where you been, Roy?" Mozzie said, stepping out of the cockpit. "Unlike you, we're on a schedule here."

"Sterling Bosch? Insurance?"

"Yeah," Neal confirmed.

"No one told me you were coming. I thought Wentlow Sterlings was handling the claim."

"They were. Where's the cockpit voice recorder?" The trick was not to linger on sensitive issues.

"That's been logged in with NTSB in Washington." Ouch. That was out of his reached. Not even Peter would get it out of there.

"I hope you made a backup." He turned and wanted to give the impression that he returned to what he was doing.

"Insurance?" Moz whispered.

"Trust me on this one." Neal placed his hands on his hips. He did not have Peter's physics and would never make such an imposing impression as him, but it posed someone confident and of authority.

"Listen, how'd you guys get in here?"

"We walked in!" Mozzie said. That was the truth, alright. "Your security is abysmal."

"We have one guard for four hangars." And you just told the trespassers, Neal thought. Great move, Roy.

"Good to know," Moz nodded.

"Listen, We made a copy of the voice recording," Roy said. "I only handle the physical evidence. I don't have access to the recording."

"When's our flight leave?" Neal asked Moz.

"Two hours."

"I can have FAA send a copy to you," Roy offered.

It would have to do. There was no excuse for insisting on getting it right away.

"That would work," Mozzie confirmed.

"Yeah, I guess that would work." Neal realized he pushed his chest out to look more like Peter.

"I'll have them send it to Sterling Bosch," Roy said. "What's your name?"

There was a slight panic in his friend's eyes. Neal pulled out Sara Ellis's card from his pocket.

"You know what, why don't you have them send it to my insurance investigator Sara Ellis." He handed Roy the card.

"I can do that."

"Great. I'll follow up with a call tomorrow morning."

"All right. Ask for my assistant. I'll give her a heads up."

"Thanks, Roy."

"Yeah," Mozzie mumbled. "Bye, Roy."

Roy left, and they were alone again. Mozzie pattered him on the shoulder.

"We'll get it. Who's Sara Ellis?"

"You weren't at my trial," Neal explained. "She was."

"Oh," Moz nodded. "For which item?"

"The Raphael."

"Bet she was rather upset."

"Called me a sociopath."

"That was highly uneducated," Mozzie pointed out. "You need to be antisocial for a start, and if you were, you wouldn't be able to steal the Raphael in the first place."

"Yeah." He had not checked it up, but he was sure his friend was right. They walked out of the hangar. "Have you ever wondered if you have a diagnose?"

Mozzie glanced at him.

"No. I believe in freedom to be however I want to be, without forced on labels telling me how to behave." Of course. "Have you?"

"Sometimes," Neal admitted.

"Mon frère, the only 'diagnose' you have is being highly intelligent. Nothing tells otherwise."

"It would be no shame to have a diagnose." He could live with a mental function variation if that were what it was.

"I'm not saying this to stop you from putting yourself in a box if you feel comfortable being in it. I say it because it's the truth."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I read, remember?"

Neal smiled. Mozzie had read books about mental health. Maybe he had tried to find answers after all.

Peter picked up Neal with his car the next morning. The young con-man was not his usual smiling self. He made a mental note to check the kid's anklet for yesterday afternoon.

"So, what's the matter?" he asked and guessed Neal would re-bounce with a question in return. To his surprise, Neal did not.

"Sara Ellis said, 'see you tomorrow, Caffrey'."

"So?"

"Will she be working with us?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes." Peter glanced at the kid. He had worked with Sara before. That she was not Neal's type was not the issue. He drove into the Bureau garage.

"Is there a problem, Neal?" he asked in the elevator up.

"There might."

"What?"

The elevator door opened on the 21st floor.

"She testified against me."

Peter blinked. Was that a problem? They walked into the office.

"I testified against you," he reminded the kid. And would still, if he had to.

"That's different," his pet convict said, but Peter could not see the difference. "How can I work with her? I'm the cunning art thief who slipped through her fingers."

"I don't think she used those words."

"No, but she looks at me and sees dollar signs. She's gonna come after me again for that Raphael."

So that was what troubled him.

"Do you have it?" he asked, straight to the point. Neal just gave him a long look. He was not going to answer that question. He had hoped that the kid would say something like 'what if I did?' and they could work out some kind of arrangement, maybe, but silence did not help his case. Well, then he had to deal with it on his own. "Okay," Peter said. "There's a hundred million stolen bonds out there. She knows this case better than anybody. Right now, we're on the same team, so play nice."

"She—" the kid started, but Peter would hear nothing of it. He had given Neal his chance.

"No."

"But—"

"No."

"Fine," the kid snapped.

"Good."

He guided Neal up the stairs and through the door to the conference room where Sara was already working with Diana, Jones, and a few other agents.

"Start a conversation," Peter encouraged the kid and pushed him in the direction of Sara. The kid was no stranger to that advice and approached her.

"Sara, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. Let's start over."

"You want to be friends?" Sara answered with a smile.

"Why not?"

"What? Coffee? Grab a bite?" Sara had her charm turned on, Peter noted, and wondered if Neal took it as the same warning as he did.

"Sure," the kid said, taken off-guard, it seemed.

"How about dinner?" Sara continued like she could not wait to get inside his pants. "Or maybe a movie? You like classics, right?"

"Good memory," Neal noted, probably aware of where this was leading.

Diana, beside him, watched the scene too.

"Are you worried about her and Neal?"

"Not at all," Peter grinned. Diana smiled.

"You name the date, Neal," Sara flirted. "I would love to spend time with you. Anything to keep you talking." She grabbed for a small dictaphone on the table.

"You're recording me?"

Peter had a hard time not laughing. He would have loved to see the kid's face, but he stood with his back turned. He exchanged a look with Diana, who was equally amused.

"Everything you say to me can, and will, be used to nail your ass to the wall and recover my painting."

Peter had interrogated Neal for hours. Made everything he could to make him slip. And he was trained for that sort of thing with years of experience. If Sara succeeded, well, then Neal deserved to go back to prison for pure stupidity.

The kid turned away from Sara.

"Everything okay, Neal?" Peter asked. The kid seemed like a fish on dry land. "What's that?" Neal put on a wide dentist grin and made a thumbs-up.

"I could get used to this," Diana laughed.

"Okay, people," Peter called everybody's attention. Neal leaned against the wall like a wet rag. "You know Sara Ellis, from Sterling Bosch. Thanks to her Intel, we have subpoenaed coded e-mails between an alias we think is Edgar Halbridge," Peter said as he walked around the table and handed out files to everyone, "and a man in Hamburg he calls Mr. Black. The e-mails use a public-key encryption. We've cracked most of them. We believe Mr. Black is a courier. Halbridge has paid him a one-time fee to enter the U.S. and get the bonds out of the country."

"The bonds are transferable?" Neal asked.

"No title," Diana answered. "Whoever holds them owns them."

"Each certificate is worth two hundred grand," Jones added.

"So a stack of a hundred million dollars is this thick?" he asked, measuring with his thumb and index finger. "Halbridge is taking a huge risk using a courier," the kid told Peter. He did not believe in the theory.

"I'd take the risk," Sara smiled in return. Peter frowned, not sure what to make of that.

"Our plan," he continued, "is to intercept Mr. Black when he transfers planes in Toronto. Then we put Neal into his place here in Manhattan."

"Thank you," the kid hissed, "for the heads up." Sara rolled her eyes. "You said you cracked most of the e-mails. What's in the one's you haven't?"

"Don't know."

"Halbridge won't recognize Mr. Black?"

"From the vernacular of the e-mails, we think he's an American ex-pat. The last e-mail says Black will be the guy wearing a leather jacket and carrying a copy of Atlas Shrugged, which tells me he doesn't know what he looks like," he assured Neal with a stern eye. This was no up for debate. "Let's make this happen. Go." The team split up.

"You're welcome," he overheard Neal telling Sara as she passed him.

"For what?"

"I recover the bonds, and your cut is two million."

"See, I thought the Bureau needed me, given their recovery rate is less than one in twenty."

"Is that true?" the kid asked Peter. Of course, he was baffled.

"That's the Bureau's recovery rate," Peter grinned. "Not mine." He did not need Sara. But she had the intel, so why not? He gestured to Neal to come along to his office. Sara seemed a bit humbled. Well, that did not hurt her.

The kid closed the door behind him.

"You didn't give me a heads up because you thought I would use the opportunity if I had known in advanced?"

Peter was not sure if it was a question or not. Neal's voice rang of accusation, though.

"Neal, you are a convicted felon."

"Thank you for reminding me." The kid looked out through the window. Peter sat down on his chair.

"I am your handler, Neal. And you have used the opportunity before. Besides, there is hardly any risk of danger here." He watched Neal's back. "If you're afraid you will tell her something—"

"I'm not," the kid snapped back, turning to Peter. "I'm just not so keen on the idea of helping her to get two million dollars, that's all. Especially not when I'm the one taking all the risks."

"I see." Peter did. The kid got a minimum payment for his work, and Sara would earn a fortune. "Neal, I need to know, will you do your job?"

"You know I will."

"Thank you. Good to hear."

"I don't think Halbridge would use a currier for the bonds, though."

"Well, we'll find out, won't we?"


	11. Mr. Black

An hour later, an agent walked into the White Collar office with a box.

"I'm looking for Neal Caffrey," he said.

"That's me," Neal answered from the desk, eying the agent up and down, trying to figure out what he had missed. The box was delivered to his desk.

"Then, this is for you. Have a nice day." And the agent was gone. Neal rose and looked down into the box. Clothes? Peter came down from his office.

"Undercover outfit, courtesy of the FBI. Hope they fit. Go change now. We're short on time."

Neal walked to the nearest bathroom and changed. Apart from the shoes, everything fit. So this was Mr. Black, he figured. When he returned to his desk, Peter and Diana waited for him.

"Will you do the honors?" Peter asked Diana and handed her the thumbdrive-look-alike that he knew was the key to his anklet. He sat down and swung the foot up on the desk.

"Canadian authorities have detained Mr. Black in Toronto," his handler briefed him, "but left his name on the flight manifest to JFK."

"As far as Halbridge is concerned, Black lands in an hour," Diana said as she removed the anklet and placed it on the desk.

"We've duplicated his wardrobe and every item he had on him. Diesel jacket, leather wallet, and copy of..." Peter's hand hovered over a huge book beside the wallet on his desk.

"Atlas Shrugged," Neal mused. He had read the 1200 page long novel in prison. "Mr. Black's a lone wolf." A chocolate bar was also on his desk. "Mitternacht süss?"

"German chocolate," Diana explained.

"Not a fan of the bittersweet," he sighed at pocketed it.

"From the airport, you'll take a cab to fort green," Peter instructed. "You'll wait there for a car will pick you up."

"The location's open," Diana said. "We'll be back eight blocks. We can't get closer without risking our cover."

Peter took his wrist and pointed at the watch.

"GPS tracker and voice transmitter in the watch. We'll be behind you. As soon as you see those bonds, we move in on him."

"What's the activation phrase?"

"You'll say, 'long flight', and we'll be there," Peter assured him.

"' Long flight,'" Neal repeated. "Should I be getting a recovery fee? Because Sara gets two percent. I feel like I'm doing the heavy lifting."

Peter picked up the brick of a book and slapped it into his hands.

"Move."

Peter followed Neal's tracker as Diana drove to the van. When they got there, Neal had reached the airport, and when his flight had arrived, he left in a cab to the pickup point as instructed. It was dark by now.

"I'm standing alone by a waste treatment plant," they heard Neal's voice over the speaker.

"Sexy," Peter muttered. "We got him?"

"GPS signal is locked," Jones said.

"Car coming," Neal reported.

"Here we go." He sat down and grabbed a headset.

"Black limo. Arriving from the South."

Then they heard the sounds of car doors opening, steps, car doors closing.

"Everything is as you requested," a new voice said. "Your gloves, your briefcase."

Then the sound turned into a buzz. There should have been the sound from the engine, at least.

"What happened?"

"We lost the signal," Jones said, working on the equipment.

"No GPS, no audio," Diana concluded.

"What do you mean? Did he do that or did we?" Every time the kid was off anklet, Peter was worried. Not that his pet convict would run, but that either he would get the unjustified blame for a technical failure or that he would use them.

"Neither," Diana said. "Looks like someone's jamming it."

Minutes passed. In a car, Neal could soon be pretty much anywhere in fifteen minutes.

"We still don't have a visual," Jones sighed, working on getting access to cameras and agents on the ground.

"Get eyes on him," Peter said. Neal's safety was his responsibility. "Neal said he arrived from the South. Let's use that. Call NYPD," he told Diana. See if we can rush in one of their helicopters."

Both the agent got to work.

"Okay," Jones used the radio. "Get a visual on the black limo. Halbridge's office is in midtown, and he lives on the Upper West Side."

"Send a team to both," Peter commanded.

"NYPD can get a chopper in the air in five minutes," Diana reported. "Otherwise, we're flying blind."

"Great," Peter sighed. "They've got a head start, and we are looking for a black limo somewhere in Brooklyn."

Five minutes and they got reports that the helicopter was in the air. Ten minutes later and they had followed a black limo to a restaurant where four people got off. Still no sound from the kid, so they sent the chopper to search for another limo.

"Any time you guys want to break that safe distance you're maintaining, I'd appreciate it," Neal's voice broke the silence.

"He's back up," Jones dived to get the volume up.

"Have I mentioned how long my flight was? Lawrence of Arabia long."

"He's giving us the takedown signal." Had it not been for years of training and experience, Peter would have panicked. "Where is he?" They were probably too far away to get there in an instant.

"GPS is coming up." Diana seemed to wish that banging on the keyboard would help, but she knew it was just to wait.

"I hope you guys are close," the voice returned as a whisper. "'cause I think I'm supposed to kill somebody."

"Did he say 'Kill somebody'?" Peter asked. The kid had been thinking all along that Mr. Black was not a currier.

"I'm walking into a house with a loaded gun. Please, stop me," Neal pleaded. "My driver has a gun, also. If I don't do this, he might, so I'm going to go through with this until you get here." Peter knew Neal would not kill someone, but they both knew the awful dilemma he put himself into. Convicted felon pointing a loaded gun at someone. And this someone might be armed too.

"Found him," Diana called out. "8602 2nd Street, park slope."

"Get a team there now! Who lives there?" Jones keyed, and Peter saw the result. "God."

"Black limo," Neal mumbled. "Arriving from the South."

The driver stepped out, walked around the car, and opened the door for him to the back seat. Neal eyed the driver and saw the good man had a gun in a shoulder holster. He got inside, and the door closed. The driver picked up his phone on his way back to his seat.

"Got Mr. Black. I'll confirm when the job is complete." Neal frowned. It did not sound like he was about to get a bunch of bonds. The driver took his seat and looked at Neal in the back mirror.

"Everything is as you requested," he said. "Your gloves, your briefcase." Neal glanced at the seat beside him and saw a pair of black gloves and a black briefcase. The driver got the car moving.

He took the items in his lap. Nothing seemed strange about the gloves. Thin, from the gentleman's store. He put them aside and focused on the briefcase. He snapped the locks open and lifted the lid.

The inside was filled with foam rubber and in compartments were the parts of a gun.

Reality hit him like a sledgehammer. He had had doubts about Halbridge using a currier, yes, but no one had thought of him to hire an assassin. 

"Is everything in order?" the driver asked. "That is the correct gun?"

"Yeah."

They would not get their hands on the samurai bonds tonight. Maybe never. He had to abort this, or someone was about to die. Sara would hate him, but Peter would be on his side, of that he was sure.

"Sure was a long flight."

"What was that, sir?"

Neal scratched his shoulder, bringing the watch and the mike closer to this mouth.

"I said, 'It sure was a long flight.'"

No car stopped before them, no meeting NYPD car turned and followed. Had Peter not heard? Or was he too impatient? On the other hand, no one thought he was in any danger.

"Ruger Mark II with tactical solutions receiver. Red dot holographic sight. Good." Now they must understand he did not have a pile of bonds in his lap.

"As you requested," the driver answered.

"Couldn't carry this with me on my long flight, could I?"

"Everything else is in place."

"That's fantastic." Peter did not hear. He was on his own. Neal was a criminal but hated guns and everything they stood for. On top of that, he was a convicted felon that the FBI just lost on the radar. The next time they saw him, he was likely armed. It could mean he would be back in prison tomorrow.

He put the gloves on and put the gun together.

"Everything all right, Mr. Black?"

He put the briefcase away and put the silencer on.

"How much farther?"

"We're close."

Yeah, but how far away was Peter? Five minutes later, the driver stopped in an area that was quite alike where Peter lived.

"Target's on the first floor. I'm here if there's any resistance."

"Stay here." Neal jammed the gun inside the waist of his pants. "Keep the engine running." He stepped out of the car and scanned the sidewalk. "Any time you guys want to break that safe distance you're maintaining, I'd appreciate it," he mumbled and began to walk towards the address. "Have I mentioned how long my flight was? Lawrence of Arabia long. I hope you guys are close 'cause I think I'm supposed to kill somebody." He walked up the stairs towards the front door. "I'm walking into a house with a loaded gun. Please, stop me." Anything that could explain where he was and why. He did not want to die, and he did not want to go back to prison because some email's code was not cracked. "My driver has a gun, also. If I don't do this, he might, so I'm going to go through with this until you get here."


	12. How's the coffee around here?

Neal picked the front door and got inside. He shut the door behind him as silently as he could. What would he do now? He hoped that Peter had heard his call for help. It was probably jammed within the car, but now he was outside of it. But Peter could be at the other end of town. Even a squad of FBI agents could not just pop out of the ground out of nowhere.

He scanned the apartment. The bedroom has its windows towards the street. That ruled out the option to just leave and tell the job was done.

Besides, he needed some form of agreement and understanding from his mark. Or else he or she would be in danger later.

He pushed the bedroom door open. A woman, sleeping alone. That would make things a bit easier, maybe.

He took another step inside.

And then the woman shot out of bed like a bullet, aiming a gun at him.

"Freeze!" she screamed.

"Wait! Don't shoot!"

"Caffrey?"

He stared at the face of…

"Sara?"

"This is because I won't let the Raphael go." So sure of herself.

"No, it's not. This isn't what it looks like."

"It looks like you're here to kill me."

"It is what it looks like," Neal admitted. "I was sent here to kill you." Sara cocked her gun. "Look, Mr. Black from Hamburg isn't a courier. He's an assassin."

"Right." Neal sighed. Where was Peter? Sara would not trust him, but she would trust the solid federal agent.

"There's a driver outside. He's armed. He may come in here if he doesn't see muzzle flashes."

"I can make that happen."

The phone rang.

"That's probably Peter." Even though he did not point his gun at her, she would not let go of her aim. "Look, I'm putting the gun down." He put in on her bureau and took a step away. "Answer the phone."

She reached for the button to put the call on speaker and barely even left her aim for a second.

"This better be Peter," she said, back pointing her gun at him.

"It is," the most comforting voice he knew floated through the room. "Tell me you haven't shot Caffrey yet."

"No, not yet."

"The flight was long, Peter!"

"Who wants me dead?" Sara asked Peter.

"Halbridge," Neal answered.

"Peter, is that true?"

"It looks that way, yes," Peter confirmed.

At last, Sara lowered the gun.

"We can arrest the driver outside," he suggested. "Work him to get to Halbridge."

"That doesn't guarantee we'll recover the bonds," Sara said.

"What do you suggest?"

Neal could almost see her brain at work. She returned his look.

"Let him think I'm dead." Neal smiled. He liked how her mind worked, solving problems. There was a reason she had been so close to finding the Raphael. She pointed at the floor beside her bed. "Three bullets there will do."

She looked at him as if she expected him to pick up the gun. He was flattered for the trust, but…

"Sara," Peter said over the speaker-phone. "I think you're the most qualified to do the shooting."

She blinked, but dropped her own gun on the bed and went for his on the bureau without further questions. She put three bullets in the floor.

"Congratulations, Caffrey," she said and handed the gun to him. "You've killed me."

"I'm sorry for this, Sara," Neal tried.

"It's not your fault," she returned. "It was you who said you didn't think Halbridge would use a currier. Now go, before the driver is spooked."

Neal left the building and met the driver waiting on the sidewalk.

"It's done. Let's go."

The driver opened the back door to him and he got inside.

He was dropped off at the same spot where he was picked up.

"Peter, is the wan still just eight blocks away? Could you pick me up on the way back?"

Five minutes later the van came down the street and Neal got inside. He sat down on a chair and closed his eyes. Peter and Diana were on top of things, arranging for Sara Ellis to be dead. He overheard two different conversations. One where Peter handled everything concerning the bluff with some brass from N.Y.P.D, most likely, and one where Diana made all the official like she was reporting in.

He was dead tired and wanted to go home, but it was not the time for that yet.

“Freeze!” a woman yelled. Probably Sara.

“Wait! Don't shoot!”

“Caffrey?”

“Sara?”

“Why did he say, ‘don't shoot’?” Jones asked. Peter felt the color leave his face.

“Because she's gonna kill him.” He browsed his phone for Sara’s number. “Get me her number! Now!”

“I’m on it,” Jones returned. “She’s not got a listed number.”

“Of course she doesn’t! Find it for me! You’re the FBI!”

Jones keyed.

“Here!”

Peter looked on the screen and pressed the numbers on his phone and dialed.

“This better be Peter," Sara answered.

“It is. Tell me you haven't shot Caffrey yet.”

“No, not yet,” Sara returned. Peter relaxed. Now they could work something out.

It was way past midnight before he could sit down with Neal.

“That didn’t exactly turn out as expected,” he said. To say the least.

“No,” the kid shook his head. Was he too tired to make jokes?

“What about the gun?”

“I left in the briefcase for the driver to dispose of.” Peter sighed when he heard this. “I know, but apparently that was part of my plan.”

“We intercepted the E.M.Ts and N.Y.P.D,” he told Neal. “We put out reports that she's confirmed dead.”

“Where is Sara now?”

Peter saw Jones coming up the stairs to the office with Sara on his tail.

“Jones was taking her to the safe house.”

“I took her to the safe house,” Jones returned. “She didn't want to stay.” Sara walked in, dressed in panties, a short silk top, and an FBI windbreaker jacket.

“Why not?”

“Gentlemen. Neal.” She sure had a way of greeting people.

“You're really redefining business casual,” the kid said.

“Hardly recognized you without the Ruger,” she spat back. Whatever co-operation and unison that had existed between them a little over an hour ago it was gone now.

“You should step out,” he told the kid, who didn’t object.

“I think I'll step out.” He left the office and Peter made a mental note to make sure he got the anklet back on before he left.

“My files on Halbridge. Please put them in there,” Sara told the guy driving the cart and gestured towards the conference room. “First things first. I need pants.”

“Jones, find her some pants.” The agent looked like he asked him to find him ice cream in the middle of the night but nodded and left.

Peter saw Neal at his desk, waiting. He walked down to him, noted that the anklet that was left on the desk was no longer there. The kid must have seen his face because he turned in his chair and pulled up the leg of his pants.

“You put it on?” Peter asked and felt a bit stupid. How else would have?

“Took the liberty. It was coming on anyway.”

“It’s late and you’ve had a rough day. Go home, Neal.”

The kid got to his feet. 

“See you tomorrow, Peter.”

Peter walked back into his office and signed Neal off. He checked the dot on the screen for a moment, then he saw another trolley of boxes pass his office on the way into the conference room. He turned off the computer and walked into the next-door room where Sara seemed high on energy or fury or both.

“What are you doing? You okay?” he asked. Sara dumped a bag on the table and opened it. “It's been a rough night. You should get some rest. We'll talk on the way to the safe house.”

“I'm good.”

“You're staying?”

“Peter, I was woken out of a dead sleep by Neal Caffrey standing over me with a gun. I would love to be somewhere I could trust. Any progress on the pants?”

Sara could not possibly know or believe that her presumed art thief would never have done anything to harm her and that the experience probably was equally scary for the kid.

“Jones?” he called.

“Here's your bag.” The young man placed a white bag on the table.

“Thank you.” She zipped it open and pulled out a pair of pants

“Where are you gonna sleep?” Peter wanted to know.

“I'll be fine. Something about an attempt on your life really gets the blood flowing, like a double shot of red bull and espresso. I think I just invented a drink. You boys got any scotch?” She pulled the pants on.

Peter smiled to hide that Sara got him spooked. He turned to Jones who waited by the door.

“Get a cot. Bring it up here.”

“You got it.” He too had given up to control the current of lightning.

“It's been a while since somebody wanted me dead,” Sara said. Peter raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Don't look so surprised. The question is why does Halbridge want me dead?” Peter nodded.

“Which means what's so special about you?”

“I play a mean cello. I work for Sterling Bosch. I can be replaced. Kill me, another investigator takes over, and Halbridge knows that. So, honestly, why me?”

“Sara, we'll figure this out,” Peter said. He did not have a clue, but then he had thought he sent Neal to act as a currier, not an assassin. Now the pieces in the puzzle had other shapes. He would figure it out. “We are gonna get this guy.”

Sara nodded, relaxed by his confidence it seemed.

“How's the coffee around here?” she asked. “We have a lot of work to do.”

Peter stared at her back as she began to unpack a box. Had she just said ‘we’? He was going home.

"You were supposed to be here an hour ago." Mozzie's voice the second he passed the door to his own home. And there was his friend, lying on his couch with a glass in his hand.

"Yeah, well, we can't all spend our nights sipping wine on my couch." He has tired and wanted to go to bed.

"Not with that attitude, you can't."

"I was a little busy posing as a professional killer."

"As you said."

"Are you tipsy?" Neal asked looking at his friend.

"A little bit."

"Where's the cockpit recording?"

Mozzie sat up.

"I checked with Roy's office. The package from the FAA arrived at Sterling Bosch earlier today, care of Sara Ellis."

Neal took a chair opposite.

"So what happened? Where is it now?"

"You went and killed her is what happened. It's under lock and key while they investigate her 'death.'"

"Okay, I'll find a way into Sterling Bosch."

"Look, your best chance is to wait until Sleeping Beauty awakens from her dirt nap and snag it then," Moz said and in most cases that would have been a fantastic idea except this was Sara Ellis, a woman who hated him before the night's events. Now… "I'm guessing you're not her favorite person at this moment? Then I would suggest cozying up to her."

"She put a gun in my face."

"And cocked it?"

"Yeah."

"You've come back from worse," Moz said with confidence. Neal wondered when that might have been, but depending on your point of view and idea of what could be worse, maybe Mozzie was right.


	13. Rattling Halbridge

Neal saw that their conference room was now Sara Ellis' domains. There was a cot in the corner but if she had slept in it was hard to tell. Sara herself sat by the end of the table and looked tired.

"Love what you've done with the place," he said as he walked in.

"What do you want, Caffrey?"

"Look, I feel bad about last night, so I bought you a housewarming gift." He turned the charm on. "I know how much you've been wanting this." He held a print of the painting that united them, directly from the stor.

"The Raphael you stole."

"No. But it's a nice print of a stolen Raphael. Says so right here." He pointed to the corner of the package.

"Homey."

Yeah, I mean, we're working closely on this case..." He placed the print, covering some of her notes on a big pad on a tripod. When he turned back he saw she placed the small dictaphone on the table. "Really?" She smiled and nodded. He picked it up "Are we gonna keep doing this?" using a voice he would have used it he tried to seduce someone.

"Really. Keep talking." He got the feeling she used that voice too, towards him.

"'Cause I can go on all day."

"Please."

"Hey, kids. Playing nice?" Peter entered the room.

"Neal brought me a gift."

"The Raphael," Peter noted. "Cute."

"He wants something," Sara told Peter.

"I can't get you a present?" That hurt, somehow.

"When someone like you gets someone like me a gift, there's a reason," Sara explained. Unfortunately, she was right. "Peter, what do you think Neal wants?"

"He's never given me a present."

"I sent you birthday cards."

"Wasn't a present," Peter objected. Neal wondered what he could possibly buy Peter without raising the same flags. Especially now. He had to save that to Christmas. "Do you want something from Ms. Ellis?"

"I want her to stop pointing guns at me." That was the honest truth.

"That can be arranged. Sit."

"Hey, kids. Playing nice?" Peter asked when he entered the conference room. He would be surprised if they did.

"Neal brought me a gift."

"The Raphael." His favorite art thief had a great sense of humor. "Cute."

"He wants something," Sara said.

"I can't get you a present?"

"When someone like you gets someone like me a gift, there's a reason," Sara explained and turned to him. "Peter, what do you think Neal wants?"

Interesting. Sara was hostile to Neal and Neal wanted to smooth the waves. But did he want something more?

"He's never given me a present." Because he did not need to probably.

"I sent you birthday cards."

"Wasn't a present." Because you never felt the need, Peter wondered. Then it was a good thing. "Do you want something from Ms. Ellis?"

"I want her to stop pointing guns at me." That was most certainly not a lie.

"That can be arranged." Time would probably tell if there was more to it. "Sit. Let's talk about Halbridge. Sara, why do you think he wants you out of the way?"

"I don't know."

"What do you have in your files that we don't have?"

"Well, I dug deep. Stocks, security, all his land holdings. Tenant lease agreements."

"We've already seen all that," Neal said.

"I believe so," Sara said. Nothing that the FBI did not have. So when…

"Mr. Black," he said. "When was the first e-mail sent to him?"

"Good," the kid said. "Figure out when he arranged the hit?"

"Yeah. Yeah," Peter agreed browsing. "All right. Here it is. Five weeks ago, what were you digging into?"

"Five weeks ago?" Sara asked, thinking. Then she grabbed a file from one of the boxes. "This. It's Ridgemont. Ridgemont is an apartment complex on West End Avenue. It was the first place that Halbridge lived in when he came to New York.

"He bought it for nostalgia?" Neal asked. Kind of a big place for that, Peter figured.

"It's a classic six. Maybe Halbridge is into pre-war architecture?"

"Maybe," Sara nodded, "but he's renovated all his other properties except for Ridgemont."

"There's something there he doesn't want to let go of," Peter smiled. He loved the way she observed things. If she worked for the FBI he would do all he could to get her to his team.

"Yeah, and you should ask him," she smiled in return.

"Doubt he'll discuss it with the FBI."

"Do you think he'd talk to Mr. Black?" Neal asked. It was an excellent idea and the kid knew it.

Mr. Halbridge sure knew how to show his wealth. Neal walked up the grand staircase. At the top he was met by the driver.

“If you have a weapon, I'll take it.”

“I don't.”

An assassin without a weapon, of course it was not a statement to trust.

“I'm gonna check.” The driver tried to frisk him, but Neal pushed him away.

“Get your hands off me!” It felt so good that for once be able to say that.

“It's all right, Nico,” a voice said behind him. Mr. Halbridge came down the stairs from the third floor. “What is so important that you need to see me in person?”

“You want to do this in front of him?” Neal nodded in Nico’s direction.

“I'm more comfortable that he stays.” Halbridge walked ahead into a huge room. “Did you enjoy your trip to New York?”

“It isn't over yet.”

“It should be.” Halbridge gestured for him to sit down in one of the visitor’s chairs in front of his desk. “Your business, as I understand it, is complete.”

“Not quite,” Neal said with a sly smile and sat down. Halbridge did the same. “I'm here to talk about Ridgemont.”

“That supposed to mean something?” Halbridge hid his surprise into a gesture of wonder.

“You hired me to kill a woman.”

“This conversation is over.” He made a gesture for Nico.

“I asked myself: ‘Why kill her?’” Neal went on. “She must mean something to you. So before I took care of her, we had a little talk, and she had a lot to say about Ridgemont apartments.”

The man across the desk was so relaxed that Neal was sure that they were on the right track.

“If you're insinuating that I had some woman killed, what makes you think that I won't have you killed right where you sit?” Halbridge nodded to Nico to do so, but when Nico went for his gun, the holster was empty.

Neal pulled Nico’s gun out from within his own jacket.

“That crossed my mind,” Neal nodded, pulling the clip out, disarming the gun. “Here's what happens now. You're going to transfer two million into my account. You got 48 hours, or the FBI gets a call telling them to look into any connection between you and Ridgemont apartments.”

“Liquidating two million in assets will take some time.” So Halbridge wanted him to keep his mouth shut.

“You're a wealthy and resourceful man. You'll think of something.”

“If I don't?”

Neal placed a single bullet on the glass surface of the desk.

“You got a lot more to lose than I do.”

Then he left, keeping Nico’s gun. He did not want to be shot in the back.

Outside, the van was parked. Neal checked around and slid inside.

“We were right,” he said as he pulled out Nico’s gun from his pants and handed it to Peter. “Ridgemont was the way in.”

“Good.” Peter took care of the gun. “Jones, Diana, keep monitoring Halbridge's phones and assets.”

“There are plenty of places to plant a bug in his house,” he informed his handler but got a stern eye in return. “If you want to go that way.”

“You're playing with guns,” Peter said. “I'm not letting you back in there.”

He knew Peter was just concerned about his safety, but it was frustrating.

“Just letting that simmer.”

“What happens if he actually transfers the two mil to Mr. Black?” Jones asked.

“It'll be a good day for Mr. Black,” Neal said, wishing that he somehow could see the real Mr. Black’s face.

“I've got a team watching Ridgemont,” Peter said. “If Halbridge makes a move, we'll figure out what's so important in there.” The funny thing was that they still did not have a clue.


	14. A dead girl can hope

Neal returned home to change his Mr. Black outfit to something more appropriate. He decided he would not ask Peter if he should return the clothes. It felt like a good idea to have them at home. To have an excuse to pass by his place was never a bad thing.

Mozzie was there. Had he been there all day?

"Did you know what the Norwegian police force is unarmed?"

"No." He glanced at his friend. "I'm gonna take a shower." He opened the door in the other end of the room, leading to a short corridor to the bathroom and a walk-in closet. He paused in the door. "Guess they have fewer firearms overall in Norway."

Mozzie nodded.

"Every country has fewer firearms per citizen than us, mon frère. We are the only country that has more firearms than citizens."

Nevertheless, all cops he had ever met in every country had been armed with a gun. He had never been to Norway though. He went to the shower and made it quick. It was more a matter of washing of the assassin and the gun than a need to be clean. Except for the gel in the hair of course. He did not like those things, but it was a good idea to put on things that reminded him that he was playing a part.

With a towel around his waist, he walked into the walk-in closet and put on underwear and socks while scanning the vast collection of suits. It was not fair that he, a con-man, had been given twenty good suits, while Peter probably did not have more than two good suits. But they did not have the same size and Peter would never accept that kind of gift.

He remembered Peter's comments about not receiving any gift. It had never crossed his mind to send anything but birthday cards to Peter. Had Peter expected more since they became friends? What gift could he possibly buy Peter that Peter would accept? He was after all a convicted felon and his handler was the first to point out the importance to show others that their friendship did not cloud his judgment concerning Neal.

He took a tie and walked back into the room to tie it in front of the mirror.

"Now, explain to me why your hair was slicked back," Moz said. "Amateur production of 'Grease'?" Neal sent him a glance. "I do think you'd make a sublime Danny Zuko." The guy who was prepared to change to get the girl he loved. He adjusted the tie.

"Not Kenickie?" 'I don't run away from my mistakes' was probably not the best slogan for him though.

"Please, you're not a follower."

No, they were a duo but neither of them had control over the other, neither of them was second in command. It felt good to have such a friend. Though Peter was the more stable and reliable of the two, they were not as equals for obvious reasons.

"I went back under as the hitman," Neal explained.

"Can't keep yourself from terrorizing Sara?"

"No, we're trying to force the suspect into..." he suddenly realized that Moz did not seem to be on his way somewhere. "Why are you still here?"

"You have a better wine selection than I do."

"Love your honesty." Good wines were one of the few luxuries he granted himself to buy for money he did not officially have. He suspected that Peter had a clue that he was using more money than the FBI gave him every month, but his friend was tactical enough not to ask.

"Truth is the first chapter in the book of wisdom," Moz said. "And this Malbec is a little dry." He pointed at his wine glass.

It was quite depressing to think that most people, or at least people like Sara Ellis, looked upon persons like Mozzie and himself as liars that could not be trusted. Personality was far more complex than that.

"I've got to get back to the Bureau." He sat down to put his shoes on.

"So, any progress with Sara?"

"Well, she's still camped out in the conference room."

"Still? Where's she sleeping?" Neal did not need to answer that question. Mozzie saw it in his face. "She's sleeping in the conference room?"

Mozzie made himself at home in the sofa.

"Her bed's tucked into the corner. She had Jones drag in half her wardrobe."

"Guess you can take it with you," his friend grinned. "Sounds like she's in for the long haul."

"I guess."

"That can't be fun."

"For her or for us?" Neal felt a bit childish but he just wanted it back as it used to be, with just him, Peter, Jones, and Diana. It felt like a long time ago he had people of mistrust around him.

"Either," Mozzie pointed out. "The suit can't force her into a hotel?"

"Peter agreed to this. She's under protection, so she can't leave the building."

"Can't crack a window and no room service? I mean, seriously, who can survive like that?" Mozzie sipped his 'a little dry' Malbec. At least he had the courtesy to not open a new bottle until the first was empty, Neal noted. But he had not thought about how Sara felt about all this, being dead and more or less locked up. Voluntarily, but still…

Neal returned to the office and saw Sara in the little kitchenette, filling her mug with coffee. She looked like she could need a mood raiser. He walked over to her.

"Coffee for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?" he asked. He got a tired look in return.

"Heard that Halbridge bit." It was hard to tell if she was not interested in jokes or if it was just him.

"Yea, we've got a team at Ridgemont," Neal confirmed and enjoyed being able to say 'we', he and the FBI. But that was irrelevant in this conversation. Sara looked miserable. "How's everything going with you?"

"I hate this coffee, I hate eating food out of foil, and the air in here is stale." She sent him a smile.

"Cabin fever?"

"I'm very sick of this place."

He remembered what he longed for most when it was a lock-down in prison and you had to be in your cell for all hours of the day.

"We should get you some fresh air."

"That's a little hard when you can't leave the FBI."

"Oh, Come on," Neal smiled towards her. "You got to think outside the box." He walked towards the elevator and could feel Sara's eyes following him. He returned to the ground floor, bought two Chinese takeaways from the corner outside, with two paper plates, returned inside and took the way past the FBI storage of confiscated items, a place Peter had taken him to in the early days. He found a bottle of wine and two glasses and signed for them.

Then he took it all up the elevator to the 21st floor. He put his head out and saw Sara. He waved for her to come. She did. She walked like someone would stop her at any time. She saw him standing there with a bag, wine, and glasses. The door closed and the elevator continued up.

"Can you hold this, please?" he asked her and handed her the bottle. She took it without a word.

They stepped out at the top floor, where he turned left and opened a maintenance door, that led to the elevator shaft.

"I hope you're not afraid of heights." She shook her head. "Then follow me." He walked through the door and up the stairs, crossing the shaft. It was an 'airy passage'. Perfectly safe, but you could see across the shaft for the two elevators and had the whole depth below your feet with nothing but a steel grid between you and a free fall. At the top of the stairs was a door leading outside, out to the roof.

He thought a saw a smile when he arranged the table and chairs, probably bought there once upon a time by some caretakers. He lay the table for two, served the food on the plates, and corked up the wine.

She sat down. At first, she just ate, sending him an odd glance from time to time. Probably not because he could eat with chopsticks.

"The roof," she mused and tried the wine.

"Yeah, it's still the FBI. You know the secret to living with rules?"

"Finding ways to bend them?" She held out the tag tied to her wine glass.

"Exactly."

"Well, go on," she encouraged him. "I'm fascinated."

"I'm not gonna tell you about the painting."

"It's too bad," she said but did not seem surprised. Or eager to leave.

"You know what they say about curiosity," he asked.

"Curiosity can't kill me if I'm already dead."

"So, what's it like?" he asked to steer the conversation away from him and to her, as any good host would.

"Being dead? So far, it's what I imagine prison must be like."

Neal stared at her. He had tried to fake his own death when Peter chased him, once when he had had an idea that a clean start would make him another person, one who could manage to stick to the law. It had not been like a prison at all.

"You're equating prison and death?"

"I'm sorry. I forgot I was talking to an expert," Sara snapped back. He could not disagree about that. "Cue the violins, Neal. You've got two miles. I have a conference room."

"You're indoors for two days. I got this for four years." He lifted his leg, showing her his anklet. She should cue her violins.

"Do you really want to keep doing this?" she asked, honest and straight-forward.

"No, not really." It would not lead anywhere.

They sat in silence. He searched for something to talk about, something that was not sensitive. He watched the view and was reminded of how much he loved New York City.

"Beautiful."

"Yeah. Nothing's changed," Sara said. He looked at her. She shrugged a little. "I'm dead. And the city looks the same."

"As far as the world knows, you're no longer in it, but it keeps turning?"

She nodded.

"Yeah… Certain things…" She did not finish the sentence, looking down at her hands.

"Humble you?"

She stared at him.

"Well, I was gonna say 'really piss me off', but okay, yeah, sure. Humble me."

"Alright." He laughed at this. Then he saw that she did not join him in it. "What? Your passing didn't make a big enough splash?"

"A girl can hope!"

Neal realized that the stubborn and independent Sara Ellis felt abandoned and alone, and probably understood that it was all her own fault.

"Parents?"

"Deceased."

"Brothers and sisters?"

"Only child."

"Goldfish?"

"No," she snapped. She watched him. "What do you want from me, Caffrey?"

He blinked at this sudden change of subject. Still, she sounded more curious than hostile.

"Who says I want anything?" he beamed at her.

"I do. You're a con-man. You smile for a living. And you're smiling at me right now, so I know that you want something."

For a second he considered telling her about the tape, ask her to give it to him when she returned to life, and got her mail.

"All right." She watched him curiously. He made up his mind. "I would love for you to pass me that fortune cookie." He pointed and she, maybe a bit disappointed, handed it to him. Would she have accepted that he had been in that hangar, involved her, using a business card she had given him? What if she told Peter about it? It could mean back to prison, and the tape would be out of his reach.

"You first," he said and she opened her cookie.

"Apparently excitement and intrigue follow me. How about you?"

He broke his open.

"I make delicious soups," he read.

"Confucius has you pegged."

"Well, it's true, actually. I do."

"Yeah?" He thought about having her over for dinner to prove this when she was back to the living when his phone on the table rang. It as Peter.

"Hi, Peter."

"Got word from surveillance," his handler said at the other end. "Halbridge just hired a crew to do some landscaping at Ridgemont tomorrow morning."

"He took the bait?" He saw Sara's interest sparked.

"Yep" He hung up.

"Halbridge is digging up Ridgemont," he told Sara. "I'll toast to that." Their glasses met across the table.


	15. Skeleton in the closet

Peter stood with two other agents peering down on a gang of workers with proper tools and equipment remove the tarmac and dig a hole beside the building. When it seemed as they had found something he turned to the other two.

"Okay, let's see what they found. Let's go."

The people were probably hired hands with no involvement in any of Halbridge's business. They would have no need not to cooperate.

He opened the gate and walked down the stairs to the lower ground showing his badge.

"FBI! I need everyone to put their tools down and step two feet away from the hole."

Everyone did as they were told. Peter looked down into the hole and saw they had dug out a large box or chest of some sort. He turned to two the other two.

"Call the team. I want them here in ten." He had made sure they were ready and waiting so it would be no problem. He needed a bunch of agents in windbreakers to handle the practical issues with whatever they found in that box. "Alright, get it up," he told the workers.

Neal arrived just in time for the box to land on the ground in front of the two agents in windbreakers.

"Can't be our bonds," the kid noted.

Peter shook his head.

"No, whatever Halbridge is hiding has been here for years."

"He's bound to have more than one skeleton in his closet."

"Hey, Burke, open it?" the agent asked.

"Yeah, go ahead. Get it open." The two agents took crowbars and two seconds later they opened the lid.

The person inside had been dead for a long, long time. There was little left but a skeleton in clothes. Both the agents by the box and the workers taking a peek were repelled, both by what they saw and the rotten air that slipped out.

"Looks like you were right about those skeletons," Peter said and the kid nodded, no longer looking at the corpse. So Halbridge had a dead guy he needed to hide. He had not seen that coming.

"What do you see?" he asked Neal.

"I can only say he has been dead a long time."

"What about his clothes?" Peter insisted. The kid's interest was sparkled enough for him to take a closer look.

"Mid '80s, I would say. The colors are hard to make out but the suit looks like Dave Crockett's in Miami Vice. It's Giorgio Armani's style. Did you know he had his big breakthrough designing the suits for American Gigolo and Miami Vice?"

Peter shook his head. The kid moved away from the dead guy.

"Then you probably don't know that the suit was not a formal wear at all, to begin with. It was the opposite. And do you know why dark colors are favored?"

Peter stared.

"You sound like the short guy."

"I don't like dead guys."

"I know."

"Can I leave?"

"No, you can't."

Neal sighed.

"The coal," the kid said out of the blue.

"What?"

"Cities were dirty places. You used coal for heating. The air was full of smoke."

"What are you talking about?!"

"Why suits often are made in darker colors. So they didn't look dirty."

"Neal!"

"Yes?"

"I don't have time for this. Handle the situation as an adult!"

It took its time before he and Neal could leave the scene. He knew the kid was not keen on dead guys but he could not give him leave just because of that. When they were done it was late enough for him to let Neal leave for home.

Peter returned to the office. In the elevator, he called Elizabeth. God, how he missed her.

"How's the case going?" she asked after the usual pleasantries. He stepped out of the elevator.

"We're making headway. We just dug up some new evidence."

"That was some sort of pun, wasn't it?"

"I could have also said we found a body of evidence."

"I get it. You're very, very funny," El answered and did not sound like she meant it. Well, he thought it rather funny.

"I'm here all week," he told her. "Don't forget to tip your waitress."

"So does that mean that Sara gets to go home?"

"Soon, I hope."

"Well, have you talked to her?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna update her now."

"No, I meant, have you talked to her?" El repeated, emphasis on 'talked'. "Like a person?"

"I'm not a shrink," he mumbled. This he did not want to yell out over the whole office. He saw Sara in the conference room with a bunch of flowers. Peter hoped she was not as sad as she looked.

"You've got a pretty good bedside manner, Agent Burke," his beloved El said. "Don't pretend you don't."

"All right. You twisted my arm." She always managed to raise his confidence when he felt it sinking. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

He ended the call and walked into the conference room. Sara was dressed up. She sat on the table holding a card in her hand, watching the view.

"How you doing?"

"Me? I'm good. I'm fine."

"It's a nice outfit. Going somewhere?"

"No," she smiled. "I'm just pretending. Dress how you want to feel, right?" Peter nodded without a clue what she was talking about. He had never felt as he wanted to dress in white tie. "Neal came by," Sara continued. "We had a nice little chat."

Peter was not sure if she meant 'nice' as in nice, or 'nice' as in nasty. Elizabeth would have known.

"Is he in one piece?" he asked.

"Yes, I left him whole."

"Good. I prefer him that way." Peter nodded towards the flowers in a vase on the table. "These flowers from him?"

"No. The company sent these to the funeral home. For me."

Peter sighed. He had not thought of telling her.

"We had everything forwarded from the funeral home. It's evidence."

"Yeah," she nodded and held up one of the flowers. "It's carnations. That's all I'm worth. Might as well be weeds."

Peter blinked and once again wished that El was there to translate for him. Were there hidden messages in flowers? Though she was smiling Peter did not miss that Sara was fighting not to cry.

"Well, I don't think that's fair to carnations. I mean, you got to admit, they brighten up the place."

"Did you find anything at Ridgemont?" she asked, leaving the subject of flowers and moving into familiar grounds for Peter.

"A body."

Sara was flabbergasted.

"A... Whose?"

"Don't know yet. Clothing is from the mid '80s. Looks like a blunt force to the head. No ID. No direct links to Halbridge."

"Okay, well, then, what can I do?"

"Nothing. Tonight you can rest," Peter said. "That's what you can do. When this thing is over, you can... get back to your life." He sat down beside her on the table. "Maybe find something that doesn't fit in these boxes."

"All right. You're getting paid by the hour now."

"My advice?" He was not sure if she was asking but… "Get a life. You work too hard."

"And you don't?" He did, but he had a wife. Maybe if they had had kids… Sara had not even had the chance to try for kids for years. And women, well, it did not get easier with age. He and El had at least had their shot at getting a family. "What is it they say?" Sara asked. "We can sleep when we're dead."

"That's a good idea. You're dead. So get some rest. Forensics will be here tomorrow, and you can jump back in then."

He rose and walked to leave. In the door he saw Sara on her feet, searching in one of the file-boxes. She smiled embarrassed and put the lid back.

"All right. I'll make us coffee," Peter gave in.

Neal walked to the office and arrive at his usual time. He found Peter and Sara heads together over work in the conference room.

"Did I miss a memo?"

"No, were we starting early," Peter said. Did his handler look tired? "Forensics came back this morning with an ID on the body."

"And?"

"You're gonna love this. The body buried under Ridgemont was identified as one…" Peter dropped the file in front of him, "Edgar Halbridge."

"Halbridge is the corpse?" And the man he had met as Halbridge was not dead.

"Yep."

"So the man we know as Edgar Halbridge is an impostor." Wow. Well done.

"Yep," Sara smiled.

"Who is he then?"

"We spent the morning comparing a recent signature of Halbridge's" Sara said, "to signatures from every Ridgemont apartment lease from the early-to-mid-'80s." It was still morning. They must have been up most of the night, Neal realized, glad that he had had the chance to sleep at home.

"We found a pretty good match," Peter continued, showing him a paper. "Steve Price. He was a tenant at Ridgemont at the same time the real Halbridge was living there."

"So you think Price killed Halbridge and took his identity? Why?"

"The real Halbridge had no family, but was coming into some serious cash from an inheritance. Price was poor." Of course, he was, Neal nodded to himself. Why could not people be a little more creative when it came to getting money than crossing over corpses?

"So Price knocks him off and then steals his identity," Sara added to the story.

"Halbridge's body is lying there at Ridgemont, driving Price crazy."

"His own tell-tale heart," Neal mused, remembering his Edgar Allan Poe. He heard a loud sigh from Sara.

"Pay up," Peter said and held out his hand towards her.

"What?" He did not get what was going on.

"Peter told me you would bring up the 'Tell-tale heart'," Sara explained and gave Peter a twenty.

"Oh? I'm glad my grasp of Gothic fiction is a source of amusement for you." Others would call it general education and common knowledge, but not these two obviously.

"He buys the property," Peter said. "It isn't worth the risk of digging up the body, so he cements over it and makes sure no one ever digs there."

"You start poking around Ridgemont," Neal said to Sara, "that's why he wants you killed. I like it." He saw her frown. "In theory."

"Yeah, but that's all it is, a theory. We've got the signature, but it isn't definitive. No, if we're gonna prove murder one, we're gonna need more evidence."

Neal grinned and Sara sighed again.

"Thank you. Pay up," Neal said.

"We had a bet," Sara explained and smacked the money into his hand.

"I told her at some point you'd say we need more evidence."

"We do." Peter's eyes went from one to the other without getting the fun in it. Though he ought to understand that neither his felon or his white collar bounty hunter had the same standard when it came to evidence.

"And we still don't have the bonds," Sara pointed out. She would not get anything for finding a corpse no one been looking for.

"What if we could kill two birds, so to speak," Neal said. "Make Halbridge admit he's Steve Price and reveal the bonds?"

"Great," Peter expressed at once. "What's the plan?"

"How would you feel about coming back from the dead?" he asked Sara. She could not have looked more excited about those prospects.


End file.
